Lilith Reborn
by ClearAsCountryAir
Summary: When Eponine, clinging onto life with everything she has, sees a man with a heartbeat more frail than her own, she realises that there may still be hope for her soul. But the world is unchanged and God is dead. Even together, they are alone.
1. Flight

**a/n: Alas! I have posted this. I suppose that if 'Beelzebub's Heart and Lilith's Soul' was the opener, this is the main act. If you haven't read the other, I'm not saying you have to, but…**

**I want to give a massive thanks to Mel (whatupoprah), my beta, for being so hella awesome. This would have been a graveyard of typos and been a bit (lot) more confusing without her.**

**Also, and I say this not for just this chapter, but for the whole story: I'm pulling from multiple canons and timelines, so there are aspects of pretty much every version of Les Miserables in here.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo?**

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Chapter 1. Flight

Oh, what a sweet happiness! What absolute bliss! She could still feel the place where his lips had pressed against her forehead and in that moment, Éponine was glad. Perhaps she had died loved after all. The notion had seemed more and more of a fantasy with every passing day, but the lingering warmth on her forehead told her that at least one of her childish fantasies had had the kindness to turn to truth. Perhaps the God of her childhood had taken mercy on her. Perhaps she would open her eyes and find that she had somehow found the path to salvation. Perhaps she was with that God, who she was sure had abandoned her so long ago. And, in that moment, she felt only the warmth of that final kiss. In that moment, her pain was gone and she was happy with her death.

Arms, big and strong, slipped under her and she heard the sound of men talking, laughing, cheering. She could hear Maman yelling for her to come away from the men and to go and fetch Azelma. _I will open my eyes_, Éponine thought,_ and I will be home again._

Home. It had been so many years since she had a true home. But she could hear it, she could smell it. She would open her eyes and find herself the pampered beauty of that old inn in Montfermeil. Yes, yes this would be true. If God was good, she'd returned to the life she once had, back when life had any meaning at all. She had no doubt that she could once more learn to deal with a spoiled life. She would love it this time, she would appreciate it and understand its beauty. She would be so happy and, oh, how jealous Azelma would be if she could see her now.

But the arms slipped out from under her and the sounds of her childhood faded. _It is no matter_, she thought, _I am at peace_. And there was silence.

Minutes, hours, or perhaps several lifetimes later, her peace, however, was shattered by a report outside. She was waking, but this was not her childhood. Never in her pampered youth had she beheld such pain and such misery. Her body seemed to burn as it had never burnt before_. Perhaps I am as damned as I once thought_. And yet she knew that, even in the darkest depths of Hell, there would be no pain as excruciating as that which suddenly raced through her body. She wanted desperately to scream, but the effort of parting her lips only added more pain. She was lost in darkness, alone. _Unloved_. And then the darkness left as her eyes sprung open and she found herself in that tiny cafe where her Marius spent so much of his time.

But she was dead. Her Marius had held her, bleeding in his arms, and he had kissed her so softly upon her head. She had finally escaped her pitiful existence and what sort of God would send her back? The pain of her realisation nearly matched that of the burning of her belly, as though she had been torn to shreds from the inside out.

With all her strength, she opened her mouth to call someone, anyone who could help, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a rasp too soft for anyone to hear among the guns that rang outside her Marius's cafe. _I am alone_, she thought. _Perhaps this is my very own Hell_. From her left, she heard a soft shuffle and somehow managed to turn her head. A man stood in the cafe, staring at her, his white hair and knowing eyes telling her at once that that he was not just another of her Marius's friends.

_I know your face_, she thought, and almost wished that she was indeed alone. She tried to speak, but could not. The man only looked at her. _And you know mine._ Fear flooded her veins. He knew her and she knew he would loathe her. How could he not? And, for the foolishness of her child self and the selfishness of her parents, he would surely let her die.

But then his hand was on her cheek and his hush voice begged her not to move. She felt true hope, truer than she had ever felt it before. Perhaps this man could help her.

"Monsieur Joly!" he called, removing his hand and going to the door to shout once more.

_Don't leave_. She could feel the tears coming to her eyes. _Aren't you the man who goes and saves the wretched?_

But he returned to her with a young man by his side. She wanted to ask for her Marius – she did not know anything of this man – only that he sometimes walked with her Marius. The two men began to speak to her, but their voices were lost in the cacophony of destruction. She did not fight as the men removed her shirt, it had fallen open long before and, wherever she was going, she had no need to hide. She did not fight until the old man pried open her lips and pushed a folded cloth between her teeth. Had she the strength, she would have bitten him. But he stroked her arm with a large hand and the younger man poured something over her belly.

She was glad for the cloth then.

The old man propped her up and held her close as the young man wrapped an almost clean linen around her. The world around her spun and she desperately wanted to tell them that their efforts were futile. She would die in this Hell before going on to the next. Silence had fallen beyond the walls of the cafe. Or at least the guns had stopped. Voices still flooded the air around her, but one could not be distinguished from the next. Éponine was drowning in a sea of murmurs and could find no escape. And then a voice reached her. Clear and sweet and young and innocent and as melodic as it always was. She reached out her hand to pull the singer close to her. He was so close. He was in her reach. But, as one, the two men reached for her arm and pushed it back beside her.

A second voice broke through the chaos. But there was no melody to this one. Only terror. The men beside her looked towards the door. There was the sound of the other men moving rapidly and the second voice called out once more, calling that name that was forever in her bleeding, failing heart. There were whispers from either side of her. The young man tied off her bandages and ran to see what was happening outdoors and the old man lifted her in his arms.

"Mademoiselle!"

Outside her brother continued to sing.

"Mademoiselle Jondrette! Mademoiselle Thenardier!" These sounds meant nothing.

A shot rang out and men's voices shouted, but the boy's melody still swam the street.

"You must stay here. You must not move!"

She needed to go to him. The child needed her.

"Stay hidden, child, and you may be saved."

She turned up to face him. _Save my brother, _she wanted to say. But he grabbed her chin and locked eyes with her.

"You will not move. I will come for you when it is over. Have no fear, poor child." And then Monsieur Fauchelevent was gone and Éponine was alone in a corner, a shelf blocking her from the door.

A second shot sang and someone screamed her brother's name. She had never before realised how horrible the name could sound to her ears. There was a moment of silence. No more screaming. No more gunfire. No more singing.

But, as they always did, the voices returned to the men. They were louder than they had been before. And angrier. So very, very angry. And the guns began to shoot once more.

She hugged herself tightly in that corner. Guns didn't scare her. She remembered the way the gun had felt in her hand when Montparnasse had dragged her fingers across it. "It is the man who does the killing," he had told her, kissing her shoulder until her trembling ceased. "The gun is no more than a method." She had flopped down on his bed in response and, foolishly, asked if he was that man. A darkness had clouded him then and he had taken her by the wrist and told her to leave. She tried to picture his face, but the sounds of men dying, men losing their bravery, now flooded her head. _But would all these men be dying, 'Parnasse, if the guns were not tearing them apart? It is not a man inside me, killing me cruelly. Only a bullet._

The door to the cafe burst open and, for a moment, she shut her eyes_. Men are more frightening than any gun, their favourite weapon always upon them. _ Montparnasse had told her that as well when he had found her wandering the streets not so many months ago. But she opened her eyes and saw men with almost familiar faces came through the cafe. Not a single eye fell upon her as they raced upstairs. _But where is my Marius?_ She wanted to scream. _Have you let them kill my love?_ The door burst open once more as soldiers filed into the cafe. She wanted to reach out and kill them, kill them all for killing her beloved.

_But you are as guilty_, another voice whispered in her head_. You led him here. You have killed him as much as he who held the gun_. It took all her strength not to scream as she watched the soldiers turn their guns to the ceiling and heard the bodies fall above them. She was wrong, so very, very wrong. A gun was very terrifying indeed, especially in the hands of a man.

Silence fell and, even with all the soldiers in the room, the girl was alone. And then the floorboards creaked. A weight shifted above the soldiers and she watched as they swiftly disappeared up the stairs. She waited for the guns to sound again, but before they could, another sound emerged - that of heavy, uneven footsteps upon a wooden floor. She watched a lone young man walk upstairs. She even knew this one's face. He was the drunkard, her Marius had told her that.

_Stop, you fool! Run, run away. Take me and run away._

But, in truth, she was silent and the drunkard disappeared after the soldiers. And once more then guns sang their song. She sat there, trembling, clutching her burning body and praying that the soldiers would find her on their way out. They had killed her love and all those he cared for, why not her as well? But after a time, the soldiers came back down the stairs and walked out the door. Away in the distance, a bird began singing, as if to make up for the end of the guns' song. She closed her eyes and prayed for wings. _Make me a bird and let me fly from this pain_.

But the girl's back was only skin and bones, nothing that would enable her to fly. She bit her lip hard to stop the cry from leaving her mouth. A drop of blood ran down her chin, but it was nothing to her. Her body was already caked in its own blood. What was another drop?

There was nothing but silence in the cafe. Old Fauchelevent was not coming for her. _I'm no less pathetic, no less pitiful than your lark. _It was not fair that he would not save her, too. Hot tears poured down her cheeks and landed on her chest, mixing with the blood congealing there. Her life was leaking out of her and there was no one there to hear. And so Éponine resolved to save herself.

She did not remember standing and, clutching her side, could not recall why she was standing at the foot of the stairs. It was not, she knew, a way out. She needed to leave now, before the soldiers returned. But she didn't. Her mind could not work so hard just now, it was too busy with the pain. So, without the help of her mind, she pulled herself up the stairs. When she reached the top, she took in a deep breath.

Three men were lying in the middle of the floor. A fourth man, the drunkard, had fallen against the wall beside the window. His eyes were big and brown and looking ahead as though the Virgin herself stood before him. But there was nothing but an empty room. It was the fifth man, however, who called to her. The corpse hung out the window, his feet on the floor and his head out in the rising sun. She walked towards him, stepping lightly over the bodies on the floor. Her insides tightened painfully as she saw the man who had only just wrapped her wound in clean linen lying there under her foot. But still she kept walking. She knew the face of the man in the window. She had often heard her Marius talking with his friends about their leader. "He is not even a man. Where we have flesh, he has marble. I don't even think he bleeds."

But, oh, how his blood soaked through his shirt! Inexplicably, she reached out to run her hand across his face. It looked like true flesh. It was even still warm to her touch. She ran her finger first along his jaw and then his forehead. It was then she felt the flutter of his eyelash against her wrist. She withdrew her hand, but he grasped her other wrist. A weak grasp, as weak as any she had ever felt, but still the life in him grabbed her. She sucked in her breath, momentarily forgetting the pain still pulling apart her insides. And then she was pulling him in through the window and propping him against her.

"I will help you, monsieur, I am stronger than I look," but the half corpse made no reply. Carefully, she dragged him to the top of the stairs. The soldiers would be back soon and she needed to be gone. But a debt was a debt. Her Marius had been there because of her. He had fought because of her and he had died because of her. She robbed him of a life and gave God a soul that he had not expected. _You owe me._ She had been unable to save her Marius, but this statue - he, she could save.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and pulled with all her might. Tears were once more streaming freely down her face by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Pulling him down was worse and more than once did she almost fall, but she succeeded. As quickly as she could, Éponine pulled him from the cafe and into the shadows, willing him not to die. In the safety the shadows provided her, she breathed. A dark mark was growing on her bandages and once more her head was beginning to spin. And, only now in the outside air, did she remember her shirt, abandoned in the cafe. Only her bandages covered her now. Her eyes welled up again, but this time in shame as she stripped the man of his jacket and wrapped it around herself.

Biting down on her lip, she pulled up the man, slipping her own arm around his waist and placing his arm over her own shoulders. His head fell limply upon her shoulder.

"You will not die on me, monsieur."

The man's eyes fluttered open and she gasped as he stared at her with pain and confusion.

"You will not die," she repeated.

He seemed to nod, and then his eyes shut once more. Silently, Éponine and the statue man went through Paris. Tears ran down her face and the stain across her chest and belly grew, but still she made no sound. They were safe as long as they were silent as the shadows. But even the shadows, which had once provided her with safety, could only protect her so long. Pain coursed through her body as her head spun and the man grew heavier and heavier until Éponine could bear it no more.

She sank down against a wall, the body falling beside her, and let herself cry. She had to stifle a scream as she drew her knees to her chest.

"Please let me die," she whispered. She stroked the cheek of the dying boy beside her. "If there was a God, monsieur, I think we would both be very dead."

"That's quite the negative outlook on things, sweet 'Ponine."

Éponine looked up, but the voice came from the shadows. It was no matter - she would know that voice anywhere. Anyway, Montparnasse was the only one to ever call her sweet. No one else would submit themselves to such a lie.

Quickly, Éponine wiped her tears away and stared at the spot from which the voice came.

"What?" she snapped. "Have you come to mock me while I die?"

The gangly figure stepped out of the shadow and squatted before her. "Do you really think me so cruel?"

She spat at him, but he paid it no mind.

"Come, 'Ponine. Leave this corpse to rot with the others. Let me take you home." He reached forward, placing his thumb lightly on the bandage. Éponine winced. "We can fix this."

Éponine shook her head and pressed her injured hand to the dying man's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his blood mix with her own. "I can't, I have to save him." She willed the tears to stay in her eyes. "Please, _please_ let me save him."

The kind assassin - if an assassin could be kind - stood up, looking down at the girl. "_Saving_ people isn't exactly my strongest suit."

"And me?"

"It's a fine pair of trousers he has. And I'm sure that's his jacket."

"Montparnasse!" She was too tired now to be ashamed of the desperation in her voice.

"He's another one of your pretty little bourgeois boys, sweet 'Ponine. You'd be wise to forget him." When he looked down at her, his eyes were almost soft, holding something akin to pity.

"Fine! I don't need you," she told him indignantly. "I can save him on my own!"

Montparnasse sucked in his bottom lip, contemplating the girl. With a sad smile, he tipped his hat and turned away.

Éponine choked out a sob. She would not be left out here alone. In the past, she may have sat there and watch him retreat, but today he would not abandon her.

"Montparnasse!" He wheeled around immediately, his cheeks red with fury.

"Quiet, idiot child!" he hissed, bending down over her. "Do you want the cops to come to you? Do you want to see another soldier?"

Éponine shook her head and, carefully, brought her good hand to his cheek. They had been such good friends once, her and Montparnasse. Sometimes they still were. And sometimes, they forgot.

"'Parnasse," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "'Parnasse, please, if any of the affection you ever claimed to have for me was real, please, 'Parnasse, help me save him."

He looked back at her, eyes wide and vulnerable. _Why, he's no more than a boy_, Éponine thought. And, for as cold of a heart as Montparnasse wanted people to think he had, it was a boy's heart nonetheless, and this boy's heart took pity on the girl who had been his first everything. Without a word, he pulled Éponine off the ground. Then, after making sure she was steady, he pulled up the almost-corpse as well. With the man supported between the boy and the girl, the three continued through the shadows, Montparnasse leading the way. By the time they stopped, Éponine's world had grown blurry.

"Where are we?"

Montparnasse stepped away and the man between them fell to the ground. Éponine would have collapsed as well had Montparnasse not grabbed her firmly around the waist. He took one hand and brought it to cradle her face. It had been so long since he had caressed her with such care. She let her eyes shut as he held her there.

"Éponine! Éponine, look at me! Listen to me!"

With all her strength, she obeyed.

"You will not speak of this, sweet 'Ponine. Nor will I. You disappeared, thrown into a ditch or the Seine with the others." Softly, he kissed her cheek. "Be smart, Éponine. Be brave. And don't die. I will know." He turned and banged heavily on the door. She hadn't even noticed it before.

"'Parnasse," she said faintly, but he was gone.

After a moment, the door opened and a tall, old man stood inside. His eyes shifted from the shivering, bleeding girl standing before him to the man dying at her feet. They moved quickly back to the girl, full of concern. Éponine looked at the old man, standing there in his robes.

_Why, he's a priest. 'Parnasse has brought me to a church._

She smiled as the priest grew fainter. She only saw his arms shoot out to her as the ground came rushing up.

e/e/e/e/e/e

_My beloved Mère -_

_I hope this letter reaches you in time. I wouldn't want you to think I had forgotten your birthday. What sort of daughter would that make me? I know that I have not written as often as I should. After a long day, my fingers are often too sore from that silly needle and can barely hold the pen. And there have been so many distractions, Mère! I know Papà warned me of all the distractions I would find in Paris, but I was never expecting it like this. I think Grand-mère thought that getting me a job with a seamstress would help keep me behaved. How could you have deceived her so, Mère?_

_I doubt Papà would like very much to hear this, but Paris is a city of men, Mère. There is a cafe not far from where I work and that is where many of these young students congregate. They have such ideas, Mère, I think they would shock even you! But I fear that if I tell you too much, you'll whisk me back home or worse - you'll send me to Nonna. And I don't think I could stand another summer in Italy._

_I hope all is well with you and Grand-mère says to wish you to happiest of birthdays. I send you all of my love and affection._

_Your most grateful, loving, and obedient daughter,  
Musichetta_

_PS. My friends, Messieurs Joly and Lesgle, send you their fondest greetings for your birthday._

The letter had been sitting on her bedside table for days now. Since before General Lamarque died. Lesgle had asked her about it the night before last, when he and Joly had snuck into the large apartment after her grandmother had fallen asleep.

"Weren't you writing this days ago?" Lesgle had asked, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She had stifled a giggle as he kissed her neck. "I've been distracted."

"The revolution?"

"_Your_ revolution."

Both her boys had laughed softly at that. Then the three had stood in silence, until Joly muttered an excited "Oh!"

"Oh?" Musichetta had repeated.

Joly had picked a pen off the counter and stood over her letter. "Aren't we supposed to love who you love?" And he had placed the pen to the paper.

"Vincent!" she had hissed, breaking free from Lesgle. But Joly had already put down the pen, grinning at his post-script.

A tear dripped down her cheek at the memory and she quickly brushed it away. To think, that had only been two nights ago! She had woken up the next morning as her boys silently slipped from her bed before the old lady could awake.

"We'll be back," they had told her. "When all the fighting's done, we'll come back and get you."

"Show me your new world?" And they had nodded and kissed her softly, each in turn.

But now it was nearly noon and hours had passed since the last gunshot sounded off in the distance. How the old woman slept through it, she'd never know.

"We'll be back," they had said. But they weren't. Musichetta had stayed up all night, waiting for her boys to come back, but they never did. This time, when the tear leaked down her cheek, she made no move to hide it. _No_, she resolved,_ I can write Mère again later._ She had so little of her boys. She had written Lesgle a sweet note on his last birthday, but that was all. There were no long love letters to document the affairs. No pretty sketches done in their likeness. The closest thing was a stick-figure drawing Grantaire had drawn in the back of one of Joly's books (to the medical student's appall). If the worst had come (although she prayed it had not - it was still quite early, noon's not so late), this silly little post-script was all she had of her boys. Two silly men sending her mother their affections. She reached out for the letter and choked out a little sob that nobody would hear.

"Just come home," she whispered. _Please_. Musichetta closed her eyes and turned her head up to face the ceiling, clutching the letter to her breasts as though the letter itself was proof enough that there were two men out there who loved her and would come back for her. It had been years since she had truly prayed for anything, but now she sat there, willing the old lady to stay in her room, and she prayed for her boys. "Please," she begged of whoever was up there, "please send them home to me."

"Who are you talking to, _mon fifille_?"

Musichetta almost cringed as her grandmother's voice floated into the room. The old woman seldom called her by her proper name if she could; she saw it as another reminder that her precious daughter had married that "_méchant italien._"

She wondered what her grandmother would say if she told her she was talking to God. Maybe she'd be proud of her. She wondered what her grandmother would say if she told her she was praying for God to return her lovers to her. Both of them.

"Only myself, Grand-mère."

Musichetta could here the _humph! _from the next room.

"You must stop behaving like a silly girl, child. It's unbecoming." Her grandmother sighed. "And stay inside today, is that understood? I don't trust all those stupid boys... Do you hear me? Young lady, you'd do well to respond to me!"

But Musichetta had pressed that sweet birthday note to her lips and was rocking back and forth, her eyes squeezed close.

"_MUSICHETTA!_"

"I understand, ma'am," she managed to croak out. And then, once more, there was silence. She wasn't sure how long she had been sitting there – perhaps it was only minutes, perhaps it was hours – when there was finally a knock at the door. She was at the door before her grandmother's aging maid had even registered that someone had knocked. And, when she threw the door open, it was with such force that the young woman on the other side gave a shocked squeal and dropped an empty wooden pail at their feet. Musichetta immediately stooped to retrieve it.

"Clémence!" Musichetta could scarcely hide the disappointment in her voice. "You frightened me. I thought you were-"

"It's over," the other woman interrupted. "The fighting's been done for hours."

If it was over, where were her boys? Hours...hours...It surely could not take them hours to remember that they were meant to come back to her. _They're just busy_, she told herself. Yes, that had to be it! Her boys were busy restoring the peace and preparing for their new world. And Vincent, her sweet Vincent, there would surely be wounded men that needed his attention. And darling Valère would never leave his side. _Not even for me_. But she could live with that, for now at least. In the end, they would put her first. They were not their marble leader, who put France before women and men alike. No. But they knew she could wait, they knew she'd be safe and she'd wait for them.

"'Chetta?"

She had forgotten Clémence was there. There was a pressure on her shoulder and she became aware of Clémence's hand resting there. The two girls looked at each other and, for the first time that morning, Musichetta saw just how empty her friend's eyes were. She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself just staring at the other woman.

"They're looking for women and girls," her friend said softly. "To help clean up the…to help clean up the mess."

"Our men."

Clémence nodded, biting down on her lower lip. She had been well-known and well-liked among many of the young students and had been known to share Courfeyrac's bed once or twice.

Musichetta nodded, ashamed of the tear escaping down her cheek.

"Josephine," she called, her voice magically betraying no emotion.

A stout older woman entered the room. "Mademoiselle?"

"Where is Grand-mère?"

"Resting, mademoiselle."

Musichetta nodded again. "When she wakes, tell her the fighting is done. I've been called upon to help clean up."

Josephine looked at her, with her mouth pressed into a small, sad smile. Truly, her grandmother had no need for a maid and not much money to spare once they worked out her salary. But Josephine had been there since her mother was a child. In truth, she felt more like family to Musichetta than the old lady did.

Josephine nodded. "Stay strong, sweet girl. That's what you are." And then she kissed her cheek and was gone.

"Shall we?"

Clémence's eyes widened and wandered up and down Musichetta's frame. Confused, the girl looked down and saw that she was foolishly still clad only in her nightdress and dressing gown. Quickly, she retreated to her room and changed into a simple brown dress she had owned for years. It was uncomfortably tight across her bust, but it seemed silly to wear anything nicer. _My boys will love me however I dress_, she told herself, smiling slightly. Perhaps they wouldn't mind too much the tightness across her chest.

Within half an hour, the two girls were walking down the street, each clutching the other's hand and praying. So very, very hard they were praying.

And then they were there, standing in front of the almost unrecognisable café, in front of a place her boys once nearly called home.

Women knelt upon the street, wet, red rags in their hands. Soldiers walked amongst them, ensuring that they were doing what was asked. Behind them, in the door of the café, she could see a line of large masses upon the floor. It was there that she walked.

"Mademoiselle!" A firm hand was on her arm and a young soldier was staring down at her.

"Please," she said softly. "My...my..." _Lovers? _"My fiancé may have been...I cannot find him."

And to her astonishment, the young soldier took pity on her.

"With me, mademoiselle." Putting a hand on her back, the young soldier led her towards the cafe.

"Was he a student?"

Musichetta nodded, scared of what would happen if she dared try to speak.

"Did you know many of his friends?"

Again, she nodded. The soldier stopped abruptly, stopping Musichetta with him.

"Do you know if your fiancé or his friends were involved with the revolutionary group known as Les Amis de l'ABC?"

Musichetta kept her eyes on her feet, slowly dragging her left foot back and forth and back and forth, watching the black of her boot poking out of the folds of her skirt, only to retreat again. Or perhaps trying to escape only to be pulled back in. She almost grinned at the absurdity of the thought.

"Mademoiselle." The soldier's voice was almost harsh this time. And why wouldn't it be? She was here, at her boys' cafe, where bodies now lined the floor. And this soldier had fought. He fought against her boys. He fought against her friends.

_Damn you all to hell. _"We never discussed politics," she told him coolly.

"Well, perhaps, at least, you could help us with identities." With that, he took her arm again and led her inside.

The first body was one of an old man, one she did not recognise, and still she felt the bile in her throat. Beside him was a figure much smaller, a boy she knew by sight though not by name. The little gamin that followed Courfeyrac—and the rest—everywhere. A boy who could be not much older than ten years. She quickly brought up both hands to cover her face.

"Mademoiselle, do you know this child?"

Musichetta did not respond—it took all of her power to not lose whatever bit of sanity remained to her. She needed to leave. The room was too hot. All she could hear were the screams of the dying and all she could feel was the soldier's breath far too close to her face.

"Mademoiselle," he asked again. "Did this child have a family?"

_Why do you care?_ she wanted to scream. _You killed him, a child! _Instead, she remembered something she had once heard the boys say about an orphaned friend of theirs, lowered her hands from her face and calmly said, "His mother was France, monsieur. But it appears you've killed her, too."

The soldier stared, dumbfounded at such a reaction. And, before he had time to comprehend what she had said, Musichetta turned on her heel and began walking away, her eyes straight forward and unblinking. She would not look down and she would not see the blood of her friends. And still she could feel it seeping through her boots. _This could be them_, she thought, still scared to look down. _This could be my boys._

_This could be the last time I touch them. This could be goodbye._

She took off in a run, not even acknowledging Clémence's calling after her. She ran and ran and felt the stares of those around her. When she felt that she could run no more, she continued. And then she stopped. She stopped there on the street and stared up at that nasty, old, disease-infected building with the landlady that could very nearly kill Musichetta with a single look. Immediately, she ran to the door.

"Madame Dupont!" she shouted, hitting the door hysterically. "Madame Dupont, _please_!" Her entire body trembled as tears dripped into her open, screaming mouth.

After a minute, a stout older woman answered the door. She looked at Musichetta, crossing her arms over her excessive chest, and did not say a word.

Musichetta didn't wait. Without a second thought, she pushed her way past Madame Dupont and raced up the stairs. When she reached Vincent's room, she pounded furiously on the door, sobbing and screaming his name.

"You bastard!" she howled. "I know you're there, you horrible fucking bastard. Open the door. _Open. The. DOOR!_"

Suddenly, a hand was on her shoulder and Musichetta screamed, spinning around. But it was only Madame Dupont, observing her with a warmth Musichetta had not known her capable of possessing.

"Monsieur Joly has not been home in days, Mademoiselle. Nor has his...friend."

Musichetta nodded her head repeatedly, her breath growing rapid. Soon, it was the only sound that filled her ears. She was vaguely aware of the older woman grasping her arms and lowering her to the ground. A terrible sound then filled the hall. A horrible, wretched, distraught shriek, one that held the anguish that only exists in literature, in the theatre.

"Musichetta," Madame Dupont murmured, stroking her cheek. "That's your name, my dear, isn't it?"

Musichetta looked up at her, wondering if the old woman was mocking her. There was no doubt, she thought, her cheeks reddening, that everyone in the building knew her name. She could so vividly remember the night she had realised that this could be a problem. It had been a Sunday and she had known before it happened that this would be the night sending her straight to Hell. And she couldn't have cared less. Valère had made dinner, but Vincent had insisted on his need to study and had left Musichetta and Valère to themselves. She could still feel the wall against her back, her fingernails in his flesh and hair. It was the first time it had ever been just the two of them, the first time she had felt his hands so tightly gripping her waist and so easily lifting her off the ground. The first time she had begged, really and truly begged him, to say her name. She could remember waking up in the morning to find that Vincent had slipped in on her other side. She could still smell that sweetness, that beautiful mixture of sweat and of _them_. She had woken up that morning between the two men who were her world. And now she would never see them again.

Her body trembling, Musichetta looked up into the other woman's eyes.

"I should go," she said softly, her throat raw. "People might worry about where I am."

Madame Dupont nodded and rose, extending her hand to the girl still crumpled on the floor. Biting her lip, Musichetta took it and stood up.

"I may come by," she said slowly, her voice catching in her throat. "Sometime this week. To - to get some things. If you would let me in then…"

Madame Dupont patted her arm. "Take your time, mademoiselle. I know your... friends would want you to have their belongings."

Musichetta nodded and, with a quick murmured goodbye, all but fled the building.

When she walked in the door, Josephine said nothing. She only walking up to the trembling girl and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Musichetta wanted to scream.

"I thought I told you explicitly _not_ to go outside today!" Came the old lady's shrill caw from the other room. "Insolent girl! You could have been killed!"

Musichetta kicked off her shoes, looking at the toes now caked in blood. Grand-mère would surely have them thrown away. She tilted her head back and leaned upon the wall.

"I'm home safe now," she snapped, her voice magically not betraying her grief. "What more must you ask of me?"

e/e/e/e/e/e/e

On the other side of Paris, a man stepped foot into the city he had not seen since his youth. How drastically it had changed! _Nearly as much as I have_, he thought, smiling sadly. He knew he looked far older than his thirty-nine years. His travels had led him far and for what? To return to Paris empty handed? No. But his brother was a priest here now and he prayed that, unlike the rest of their siblings, his eldest brother might be able to help him.

If not, he would at least accommodate him for the night.

Sighing, he stuffed his hand into a pocket and ran his thumb across the fraying sheet of paper. A letter his mother had written before the fever took her. A letter reminding him of his childhood and the uncle who sacrificed it all for him and his siblings. This letter was his life and, to him, it was worth more than gold.

* * *

**Another disclaimer: I recall intentionally writing the first two sentences to be reminiscent of one of her lines in the book. However, my copy is in the US and I am in England, so all I have are crap online translations. If you read that line and were like, "Damn, Em, that's a little lot like Hugo," it was intentional. If not, then I might I have been just trying to capture the style rather than the words. Who knows? I wrote the first half of this in August. I can't remember that far back.**


	2. Shame

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/followed/favorited. Every notification makes my day! A few things I just felt like I'd answer publically:**

**~sachita: Adrenaline. We can do crazy things when it comes to 'flight or fight.'  
****~barricade butterfly: Thank you! So everyone knows – I was right and the opening line of the first chapter was meant to exactly mirror one of Éponine's lines from the book. That was indeed a paraphrasing of Hugo.**

**To all the rest who reviewed – I'm sorry I never responded to each of you individually. I left town the day after I posted this and then came home to some lovely computer problems. But each and every review completely made my day.**

**Again, thank you to Mel for being a hella awesome beta.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis.**

* * *

Chapter 2. Shame

Every few steps, the man slipped a hand into his pocket, as though making sure that whatever he was carrying was still there and hadn't fallen onto the street. He was dressed rather poorly - not so bad as a man of the streets, but by no means a man of significant wealth. It was, after all, money in his pocket, and a valuable sum at that. Of this, Montparnasse was sure. He let his gaze take in the entire street. It was crowded, far too crowded to attack the man in the open and his constant attention to his pocket made it clear that he was too wise to follow Montparnasse anywhere. And yet there were too few people to simply bump into the man and disappear with his wallet. He silently cursed the warm summer's day.

He was about to turn around, about to abandon his prey, when a low whistle hit his ears. Not as perfectly bird-like as Hers had been, but plain enough to go unnoticed by anyone but the young assassin. He looked up and saw, staring from the shadows, dark eyes beneath a red fringe. He nodded once and turned his gaze back to the man before him.

"Monsieur!" The girl darted forward. Her stealth would never match that of her sister's, but it was enough that the man hadn't seen her before she called out. "Monsieur!" she cried again, practically falling at the man's feet. He reached out with both hands, grabbing the girl by her arms.

Montparnasse looked around. A few people had turned their heads to observe the commotion. _Damn you to Hell, 'Zelma,_ he thought. She was a bloody fool to be so loud.

"Please, monsieur," Azelma begged of the stranger, who was looking around uncomfortably. "Please, take pity, please - I'm searching for my sister. No one's seen her, not for days. Not since the rebellion.

The woman across the street immediately turned her head and kept walking. _Clever wench_, Montparnasse decided. Not as clever as Éponine, that was obvious. But she was clever enough to know that no one wanted to get involved with the tale of a traitorous gamine. He took a step forward.

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," the man said, steadying Azelma. "I've only just arrived in the city."

"Oh, but please!" she persisted. _Another difference. _He had only once ever heard her sister beg. He watched as she stared desperately into the other man's eyes and did his best to ignore the honest desperation he saw. He silently applauded her for never once looking towards him as he reached into the other man's pocket. "Perhaps you've seen her, at least. Tall as me, skinnier."

"That describes a great many young women, my child," Montparnasse heard the man say as he slipped into the shadows, folds of paper in his hand. Safely hidden, he opened the papers.

He could have screamed. It was a letter, nothing more. He crumbled it up and threw it to the ground, spitting in its direction.

"Not what you expected?"

He glared at Azelma's feet as he sunk to the ground. "A bloody letter. An old one. No value, nothing but _sentiment_." He spat that final word.

The girl scoffed. "Don't pretend you're immune."

"I am."

"And what of my sister?"

Montparnasse said nothing. He simply watched as her raw and dirty feet stepped over to the letter he had crumbled and her body stooped to grab it.

"If it's only of sentimental value," she said, unfolding it and glancing it over, "you should return it."

Montparnasse let out a huff of disdain. Even in her weakest moments, Éponine was never so soft. "If he truly cares about it, he'll offer a reward."

"No one's that stu-" Montparnasse looked up and was surprised to see Azelma staring at the now unfolded sheet of paper, head cocked and eyes wide. "'Parnasse," she exclaimed, falling to her knees beside him and pointing at the scribbled words on the paper. "'Parnasse, what does this say?"

Montparnasse rolled his eyes and looked up at the wall before him. "Éponine reads."

"Well, bully for Éponine. Please, 'Parnasse."

"What's it to you? Look at the date, this was written years ago." But still he took the letter and read to the girl:

_I beg of you to find what has become of your uncle, who gave his very freedom to feed you, your brothers, and your sister. I know you were no more than a child when he was taken from us, but his name, like your grandfather, God rest his soul, was Jean…_

"Valjean," Azelma finished quietly.

"See, fool? You can read."

"I know him."

Montparnasse finally looked at her, his eyes almost widening in surprise. He wondered how on Earth Azelma could know such a random stranger, but simply responded with a soft: "Oh?"

Azelma nodded. "Well, Papa does. He was the man who got me arrested." Her face suddenly fell and she crossed her arms before continuing. "When you were too busy _fucking _my sister to help us."

With a resounding _whack_, Montparnasse slapped the girl across the face. When she said nothing, he looked down at their knees - he normally tried so hard to not hit women. Babet's rule.

"We weren't fucking and it didn't stop her from getting caught anyway," he muttered. With a sigh, he turned away from her again. "How'd the old dog know him anyway?"

"He stole Cosette."

"You can't steal a person."

"So says the murderer."

Montparnasse bit his lip rather than hitting her again. "You're a brat, you know?"

Azelma shrugged. "You should give the letter to 'Ponine. She knows where Cosette lives."

Montparnasse turned to stare at her, hoping the dim light of the alley would mask the paleness of his cheeks. Azelma, however, noticed that something - she couldn't place what - was off and continued. "Monsieur le Baron was looking for her. Cosette, I mean. 'Ponine found her for him, but I think Papa must have found out because he's been so angry and 'Ponine hasn't been home."

When Montparnasse still gave her no response, she spoke once more, the strain in her voice evident. "She is with you, 'Parnasse, isn't she? She always goes to you when something's wrong. You or Gavroche, but I can't find him either." Still Montparnasse stayed quiet. With a choked sob, Azelma grabbed at the collar of his jacket. "Oh, you've seen her, haven't you! Darling Montparnasse," she kissed his cheek and he could feel her tears. It was sickening. "Please tell her I'm looking for her, that Papa's sorry. Or I can tell her myself. Just tell me where she is. I won't tell her it was you. I'll let her think it was an accident!"

Montparnasse laughed. Éponine would never be so silly as to fall for any of her sister's lies. But they had had a deal. Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head against the wall behind him.

"Try the Seine."

"What bridge?"

Montparnasse wanted to laugh again. _What a fool you are, 'Zelma. And not even a pretty one._ "That's probably what happens traitors. Maybe she's with her bourgeois boys."

"They're all dead."

"Aren't you the clever one?"

Azelma's face paled. "Where's my sister?"

When Montparnasse didn't respond, she slapped him hard across the face. Had it not pained him so, he may have applauded her; fool though she was, the girl had a good arm. But, with a resigned sigh, he pushed the little girl away from him and stood up.

"You do know," he asked, straightening his coat, "That you're not as stupid as your father wants you to think you are, don't you? You know where she is."

With that, he walked away. Even from the main street he could hear the girl hysterically shrieking his name, begging him to come back, demanding that he find her sister. He knew he should turn back and silence Azelma, but barely a week before, he had spun around to silence a shadow and ended up dragging a corpse to a church. If he turned around, he'd say something that would only make the girl cry harder: "I saw her myself," "Your brother was there, too." He hadn't even mentioned that to Éponine. She had looked so broken and, he had been sure that no matter what he did, she would be dead by morning. Why tell her he had seen the boy while looting the other bodies? She had loved him so foolishly much. No, he resolved he'd leave the child to her own misery. Fingering the letter now in his pocket, he walked away.

e-e-e-e-e

Across the city, a young man's eyes fluttered open. The room was dark, however, so he quickly shut them once more. His whole being ached and he was not yet ready to exist again. He struggled to keep his breath steady as his thoughts came flooding back to him: the little boy singing and Courfeyrac screaming, Pontmercy falling and Combeferre grabbing him in a panic and dragging him inside, screaming that they needed to retreat. Joly gripping his arms as they heard the soldiers entering downstairs. That very grip loosening and sliding off him as shots came from below. And Grantaire, Grantaire whom he had so underestimated, walking towards him, head held high with eyes full of passion and that foolish, foolish adoration.

For years, since he had first met the other man, he had criticised him, berated him even, for his utter lack of passion. And now there were never words he would more regret. Passion alone was power. But passion and adoration? It was all foolishness, pure foolishness from which no good could come. And now all his friends, all those he knew and relied on, were gone.

And, by all logic, he was as well. He had given Grantaire his permission to die alongside him. Alongside him and not for him. He had taken the other man's hand and, in a single glance, had tried to explain it to him. He was no god and, if he was, he was one of destruction. He had whispered with his pale eyes, "I could have been your friend," and the dark eyes responded with, "That could have been enough." And then the world exploded.

His breath caught in his throat and he could all but feel the blood leaving his chest. But then he heard it, a sound so soft and yet it permeated the Hell that kept replaying itself behind his closed eyes. There was a soft rustle of skirts and even softer footsteps padding across the room. He steadied his breath, willing some nurse to recognise that his life was not worth saving.

"It takes more than closed eyes to con me, monsieur." It was an odd voice that whispered to him; ragged with the gravity of an old woman and, yet, still the voice of a child.

"Very well," the voice continued as he remained silent. "Remain a corpse, if you will. I shall talk anyway." His bed - yes, he was certainly in a bed - depressed as the woman (or was it a girl?) sat beside him. It took all his power not to flinch as fingers brushed across his chest and he prayed his breath did not betray his pain.

"They never told me how many bullets they pulled from you, monsieur. Maybe they thought it was a topic I was unable to handle." She let out a small laugh, followed by a cough. "I still have your coat - I've kept it with my things. The sleeves are still lovely, but the rest has dried brown." She sighed. "We're in a church now, monsieur, and they don't know our names. They call me child sometimes - it almost makes me laugh. And you are simply the man. Often only 'him.' I know you, Monsieur Marble. But I know the law, too, and names are dangerous things. I often-"

"Please stop." He could no longer stand her babbling. Her words meant little and less to him - she could have been speaking Chinese for all he could understand. "Please," he croaked out. "Just leave me."

His companion scoffed and he opened his eyes. A pale face stood out in the darkness, mere inches from his own.

"_You will not die._"

"I beg your pardon?"

The girl - for those eyes could not be more than a girl - cocked her head to the left.

"I didn't hear what you said," he continued.

"That's good, then. I said nothing."

He shut his eyes again. "For a nurse, you have a horrible bedside manner."

The girl laughed again and, though he could sense her discomfort, he could not place it. "Then I suppose it's a good thing I'm not a nurse." Despite her answer, he could feel her hands again on his chest.

"Who are you?"

"No one."

"Even no one may have a name."

"I've lost it."

"Lost what?"

"My name."

_What a peculiar girl_. He opened his eyes again, hoping to find enough light to study her. "A name cannot be lost."

She looked away from him, dark tresses falling over pale cheeks. "I had a choice, monsieur - my soul or my name. You can have many names, but only one soul. I'd like to think mine's not past saving."

He didn't respond. Instead, he closed his eyes again and turned his head away from her. Perhaps if he ignored her, she would just leave - or at least be quiet. But clearly the girl did not understand his intent.

"Are you truly marble?" she blurted out.

His eyes burst open and he could feel his heart pick up its pace. "I'm sorry?"

"Is Marble your true name? Monsieur Marble."

He drew in a breath, praying it meant nothing. "No."

"So it was just something your friends called you?"

He let out a quick laugh. Or maybe a sob. A man would not so calmly lead all his friends to their deaths. "I don't have friends, mademoiselle."

"No," the girl said bluntly. "I suppose you don't anymore."

He lunged forward, hand outstretched, but found himself screaming out in pain before his fingers could close around her neck. Now even paler, the girl flung herself from his bed and opened the door, shouting, "Monsieur le curé!"

As he struggled to regain his breath, footsteps approached. A warm light filled the room.

"Monsieur!" the girl exclaimed, grabbing the priest by his arm. He hadn't realised before how small she was. No, beside the priest, the girl was only a small child. "Monsieur, he's awake! Really and truly this time!"

"So I heard," said the priest slowly. "And so I see."

"I've been suspecting for, oh, a quarter of an hour nearly," she continued quickly. "His breathing changed and I thought 'perhaps I should get someone' and I was just nearly about to make up my mind when he cried out!"

The priest gave the girl a small, but appreciative smile and set his candle on the small bedside table. "You're a good soul, my child, to take such care of him. Keep your post a moment longer, my dear, and I shall send for a doctor."

"No!" Both the priest and the girl looked towards the bed.

"I assure you," the priest said kindly, "that this doctor is a good man and not unfamiliar with your wounds. He respects the law of God. Let the authorities cause you no fear here."

The younger man nodded, still working on regaining his breath. "Can't _she_ go to fetch him?" He all but spat the pronoun. The priest, however, ignored the bitterness and laughed warmly.

"You have been here nearly a week, my son, floating between us and God. And, these last five days, our friend has not left this room. Do not think that your waking will so easily sway her to leave." With a smile, he turned and left.

Alone again, the bedridden man turned his attention to the girl. "How do you know my friends?"

The girl smirked and again he felt the urge to strangle her. "They're not your friends, monsieur, but mine." She grinned and sat again on his bed, now by his feet and far out of his reach. "_Les Amis de l'Abaisse_."

"Were you there?" He asked, his voice suddenly choking in his throat.

For a long while, the girl was quiet. When she spoke, her own voice was so soft he could barely hear her. "You were in the window. I just wanted to bring you inside, but you took my hand and wouldn't let me go."

"But why were you there?"

"Other lives needed my own." Her head was bowed and he watched as her hands played fretfully with her skirt.

"Your lover?" He silently cursed himself for never having paid heed to his friends when conversation turned to their mistresses.

But the girl just shrugged. "And my brother."

_Brother_? He knew little and less of the families of his companions. Combeferre, he knew, had a sister living in London, but Grantaire, he thought, had mentioned a sister in the city before. He had never thought much of it, but still, it was all he had.

"Mademoiselle Grantaire?"

"Who?" She didn't even raise her head.

He shook his head and looked down again. "Michele Grantaire. He had a sister in Paris."

"Which was he?"

"A drunkard." He hoped the man's memory would not find insult with this identifier.

"Oh." When he looked up, he saw the girl was trembling. He reached forward, maybe to comfort her, but she flinched away and stood, walking across the room.

"Did you know him? Michele?"

She first shook her head, but then nodded. "He was looking at me." Her voice was barely more than a breath. "I've never seen a dead man's eyes before."

He dropped his head to his pillow and shut his eyes, unwilling to remember his friend's final gaze. "The dead can't see," he replied simply.

"Well, this one could."

e-e-e-e-e

For two months now, Musichetta had been in Hell. She woke with the same sun each day. She went to the shop each morning at nine and returned each evening at a quarter past six. She soaked her hands in warm water and listened to Grand-mère scold her for her grief. This was her life now.

It was the second Sunday of August when Grand-mère, in a fit of fear of watching her granddaughter sob her way to spinsterhood, demanded that Musichetta do _something_ or "I will write your poor mother and you'll be home by September!"

So she found herself standing alone in the Luxembourg. She couldn't remember why she had stopped walking, but she suddenly found herself unable to journey on. She couldn't do this, these silly distractions. The only thing that hurt more than realising her loves were gone was that split second of distraction when she almost forgot, only to remember all over again. She shut her eyes, hoping to see their faces in the darkness, but they weren't there. It barely been two months and already she couldn't picture their faces. She quickly brought her hands to her face and was about to let out a sob, not caring that she was standing in the middle of a path in the Luxembourg, when she felt something move in her pocket. With a small gasp, she grabbed her skirt and spun around.

A small boy, not more than five or six years old, was staring at her with wide eyes, his arm still outstretched and holding a single coin. His thin body trembled as he stared up at Musichetta's red face and redder eyes and sympathy and pity washed away - if only for a moment - her own grief. Before she could open her mouth, the boy let out a hysterical sob. Without paying attention to the coin in his hand, Musichetta dropped to his level.

"Oh, hush, _petit_! Don't cry!" She could never stand seeing a child cry, especially not here and now. "No harm's been done, sweetheart! Oh, and look! You've found yourself a shiny new coin!"

At her words, the boy immediately held out the coin to her, sobbing harder still.

"No, no, _petit_," she said, cupping his hands in her own. "You found it. Finders keepers."

"But I didn't find it," the child wailed. "I stole it!"

Musichetta couldn't help but laugh as she lifted the boy in her arms and carried him to a nearby bench. "Stop your tears, _petit_. I have very deep pockets, you were clever to find anything at all. Now," she smiled as she sat down, settling the child in her lap and facing him. "What is your name?"

The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on a torn sleeve, looking down at his lap. "Remi." With a small gasp, he looked back up at her. "Will you set the police on me?"

Musichetta laughed and shook her head.

"Mademoiselle?"

She looked to her right. Another small child with a mop of dark red curls stood beside her, this one perhaps a year or two older than the one in her lap. He stared at her with the same dark eyes. Shifting her skirt, she patted the bench beside her.

"Is this your brother?"

The older boy stared at the seat, but remained standing. "Is he bothering you, mademoiselle?"

Musichetta shook her head. "Oh, no! We were becoming fast friends."

"Christophe!" Remi shouted, holding out his hand so the other boy could see the coin. "Christophe, look was the pretty Miss gave me!"

Christophe crossed his arms over his chest, staring angrily at his brother. "You're _bothering_ her, stupid. Now give back her coin and let's go. We've still got to find our mister." He held out his hand.

Musichetta bit the inside of her lip. These poor boys, she thought, off to sleep starving in the streets in search of some nameless man. She wrapped her arms around Remi as he began to squirm in her lap.

"Let me buy you something to eat, please." Christophe continued to stare at her in apprehension. "Please, messieurs. I'm terribly hungry and don't want to eat alone."

The older boy stared a moment longer before nodding. Musichetta stood up, balancing Remi on her hip, and held out a hand to Christophe. To her surprise, he took it.

"So," she began as they strolled through the gardens, "tell me: where is your maman?"

Christophe shrugged his shoulders and sniffed. "We don't know. We were outdoors."

"We were playing pirates!"

"And when we went back in, Maman was gone."

"We waited _forever_."

"We waited, but she didn't come back and we were hungry."

"A mean man yelled at us, but mister saved us!"

Musichetta nodded and shifted Remi on her hip, hoping neither her worry nor her pity showed on her face. "Who is mister?" she asked cautiously.

"He's a boy. Only a little bit older than me."

"But he lives in an elephant!"

"An elephant?"

Remi nodded, grinning as though he was revealing that this mysterious boy was St. Nicholas himself. Christophe tugged on Musichetta's hand to draw her attention away from his brother.

"But he left us, too. And the rats in the elephant scared Remi."

"Did not!"

"Did too! So we left."

Musichetta nodded sympathetically and squeezed Christophe's hand. For several minutes, the trio continued in silence. Musichetta was about to ask what the boys wanted to eat when Remi slammed a hand down hard on her shoulder, pointed, and shouted, "Christophe! Look!"

Musichetta looked at where the child was pointing. And young couple was strolling not too far from them. The man was tall and well dressed with his face turned away, showing only the ends of his hair, almost red in the sun, against the paleness of his neck. The woman, doubtlessly his wife or paramour, was dressed in all mourning staring at her husband with adoration so intense that she seemed not to notice the glares of an older woman, seemingly disturbed by the dark skin peeking out beneath her fine gown. Musichetta watched as the young woman brought a gloved hand to her lover's face and said something Musichetta could not hear.

The couple's peace, however, ended when Christophe let out a squeal and released Musichetta's hand. "That is my uncle!" He tugged at his brother's leg and Musichetta had no choice but to release him. She watched as the boys clasped hands and ran ahead. She followed slowly behind, wanting to make sure that the boys were right in their recognition and, almost childishly, wanting to say goodbye. She smiled, watching Remi grab at the man's hand. He started for a moment and Musichetta thought perhaps the boy had made an error. But after another second, he swooped down and scooped up the child, holding him close. Christophe grabbed the man's hand and pointed back at Musichetta. He turned to look at her and, for a moment, Musichetta ceased to breathe.

She knew both his face and his name, though she doubted he knew hers. An acquaintance of her boys', a friend of Courfeyrac. She could feel her heart pounding and wondered what she was expected to say. "I thought you all died" hardly seemed appropriate, yet she was still sure it was better than "Why are you alive" or "why you?"

She drew in a sharp breath as he set Remi back on the ground and approached her. "Monsieur," she said, bowing her head. "I assume these boys are safe now in your custody?"

"I keep going back there - to the Musain," he said without preamble or acknowledgement of her question. "I keep wondering if perhaps I shall see you or Mademoiselle Pettigrew, yet you're never there."

"Monsieur-"

"Marius, please...?"

"Musichetta."

"Of course. My apologies. You're Joly's girl."

"And Lesgle's."

Marius had the decency to not pause more than a moment. "Of course. I've wondering where I could find someone, anyone-"

"I should go, Monsieur Marius." She turned quickly. _They were all supposed to be dead._ The idea that one could still be alive...She could feel the bile rising in her throat; she could not deal with this, not now.

"But I thought we were going to eat." She turned to see Remi holding the mourning woman's hand.

"But you have your uncle now."

"Please, Musichetta," Marius asked, placing a hand on her arm. "Come home with us. We'll have tea. Coffee, if you prefer. I'm sure Grandfather wouldn't mind. Cosette?"

The woman shook her head. "We'd be delighted to have you," she said with the voice of a lark. "Please."

Musichetta began to pick at the lace of her sleeves. The idea was enticing. She had never properly met Marius before, but both her boys had spoken highly of him: a promising future lawyer, kind and caring, a romantic. And their approval was always - and would always be - enough for her. She looked up at the sky. The sun was getting low now and she was sure Grand-mère would worry. But she was equally sure that, upon her return, the old lady would be pleased to know that Musichetta had tea with friends that afternoon, a baron and his wife.

"That would be lovely," she said, with a small nod. "Thank you very much."

Marius offered her his arm as Cosette lifted Remi onto one hip and took Christophe's hand, as Musichetta had done only minutes before.

"Are you really my aunt now?" One of the boys asked of Cosette. He giggled as Cosette responded and quickly began to tell her about their misadventures.

"So," Musichetta began quietly, allowing Marius to lead her out of the garden. "Wasn't your brother worried?"

"My brother?"

"Or sister, I suppose. The boys' parents."

"Oh!" Marius chuckled, gesturing left down the road and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Cosette and the boys hadn't fallen too far behind. "I have neither brothers nor sisters. The boys are...Well, my grandfather, you see…They live with their mother. My grandfather pays for them, though, and I used to go see them on occasion. Grandfather doesn't acknowledge them, you see and..."

He trailed off and, when Musichetta glanced up at him, she nearly wanted to laugh at how red his face had turned. "I understand." She smiled and patted his arm before falling silent again, staring ahead of her and trying to clear her mind of everything. Marius, however, could not help but speak and, in a low voice, so low she could scarcely hear him, said:

"I think you must hate me very much."

Musichetta stopped in her tracks. "I think you are very much mistaken, monsieur."

Marius let out a bitter laugh. "No, mademoiselle, I don't think I am. You may not know it yet, but you do." When she looked up at him, she found that the redness of his cheeks had been replaced with the whitest white and that the baron made no attempt to hide the tears welling in his eyes. "Don't worry about offending me, Musichetta. You won't, because, however much you choose to hate me, I assure you that, at the very least, I will match you in it. There were many brave men who fought that day, most far braver than myself and far more deserving of carrying you on his arm."

Musichetta swallowed and continued walking, prompting Marius to continue with her. "Every man who fought that day and those before knew what the risks were. You were lucky, monsieur, and should be grateful."

Marius nodded, blinking the tears from his eyes. "Cosette," he said suddenly, stopping before a large home. "I, um, will you take Musichetta into the parlor? I'll take the boys to Grandfather and come to join you." He reached out his arms for Remi, who had fallen asleep on the walk home and beckoned for Christophe to follow him. Musichetta smiled politely as Cosette linked their arms and led her inside, though all her previous confidence had left. This house, with each step, was grander than anything she had ever known. She didn't belong in such a fine place with such kind people. Her first instinct, as it always was, had been right. She shouldn't be here.

"Madame la Baronne-"

"Cosette. Please."

Musichetta smiled and nodded. "Cosette, then. I...I thank you and your husband for your kindness, but I truly must be going. I live with my grandmother, you see, and she worries quite a lot."

Cosette cut her off by patting her arm, gesturing for her to sit on a plush, white couch. "Musichetta, please," she began softly. "I can understand if you don't want to be here. Whether it's because of Marius or myself, I understand it. I do. But I must beg you to stay, just a half hour. And then you may leave and never think of us again." She sat on the couch beside her. "We've been married several weeks now, he and I. Before we married, I thought...I thought perhaps we were making progress. That perhaps his guilt was subsiding. True, I couldn't talk of his friends as though they were my own, as though I knew them, but I tried. Truly."

Musichetta stared at her skirt, unsure of what the other woman was trying to tell her. The couple, despite their obvious grief, seemed happy in their togetherness. Even before everything, she had heard Vincent and Valère discuss Marius's obsession.

"Musichetta," the Baronne continued in her sweet voice. "I would never want for you to be uncomfortable - that is the last thing I want. But you and Marius...I know you were never close and didn't speak much, but you loved what he loved and he what you did. I only hope-"

She was interrupted as her husband reentered the room.

"I'm sorry for the wait, ladies," he said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Grandfather and Aunt Gillenormand were...surprised, to say the least. My darling aunt says that having them around will be bad for my health. I assume she meant her own."

Cosette let out a tinkling laugh. "Well, she shan't have to worry about them. Toussaint will dote on them, I'm sure. She keeps complaining I'm far too grown."

"Well, she'll be quite occupied now." Marius walked over to the desk and shelf in the corner, still wearing that same sad smile, and picked up a glass bottle. "Would you care for a drink?" He continued raising the container to Musichetta.

"Oh, I couldn't. I really should be going soon, I never meant to impose."

"Really," Marius insisted, setting the container on the desk and pulling two glasses from the cabinet. "I insist. You wouldn't force me to drink alone, would you?"

"Oh, hush, Marius!" Cosette scolded her husband affectionately. "Musichetta, you mustn't feel obligated to drink just because my husband wants to."

"And you mustn't refuse me simply because my wife's too much of a convent girl to join us."

"Who says I'm not joining? Husband!" She demanded with a teasing pout. "Bring us our drinks!"

Musichetta laughed as Marius poured their drinks. It was, perhaps, her first honest laugh since she had said goodbye to her lovers on that cruel morning not so many months ago. She could feel Cosette staring at her, so with a smile, she turned to face her and squeezed her arm affectionately.

"Are you scared, Musichetta?" Marius asked as he sat himself down beside her and pressed a glass into her hand.

_Of what?_ Musichetta thought of responding. It was an odd question, one completely out of the blue. And yet she knew why it was asked and what it meant. Cosette had never known their friends and never would. As she had told Musichetta only moments before, she and Marius only had each other to understand their grief. And, in that, there was too much to be scared of. There was the ever-constant loneliness, there was the fact that she was alive. There was the idea that death was always closer than it appeared. But what he meant did not matter, for her answer would remain the same.

"Very." She took a long, slow sip before continuing. "When I am sad, I fear they hate me for wasting my life. When I am happy, I'm sure they hate me for forgetting."

All three sat in silence, the only sounds being the drink burning down their throats. It was eventually Cosette who broke the silence.

"My mother died when I was eight," she began. "And my father only a few weeks ago. I - I don't remember my mother. When she died, I hadn't seen her in five years. But I know she loved me. As did my father. And… I think that those who love us, all they want is our happiness. That is all. I don't know the men you lost, either of you. But I know you must have meant as much to them as they did to you. So, truly, I don't think they're sitting up there taking your laughter to mean you've forgotten them. I know it sounds silly to say, like I'm just reciting from a silly old play, but I really do believe it. We oughtn't waste our lives away dreaming about how things might have ended differently."

Musichetta set down her still half full glass and allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. "So what am I to do?" she asked, not even bothering to be embarrassed at how choked she sounded. She was only vaguely aware of Marius wrapping an arm around her shoulder as Cosette moved to kneel on the ground in front of her, grasping her knee. Musichetta continued, "Just pretend I never had them? Pretend that the best thing of my life was only a dream?"

Cosette shook her head. "Not in the slightest," she said, and Musichetta was surprised to hear the baroness's voice as choked up as her own. "You must remember that the ones you love are always with you. You've just need to live and trust me when I say that, even in the darkest of times, there's hope. It's silly and stupid, but trust me that I know it's true. So you must keep living as they would want you to live."

With that, she tilted back her head and finished her drink in a final go.


	3. Fallen Angels or Ghosts

**A/N: Finally updated! Thank you so, so much to everyone who read/reviewed/followed the last chapters.  
****And, as always, thank you, Mel, for being such an amazing beta.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis. It's sad, I know. **

* * *

Since June, a small church in the centre of Paris had acquired what appeared to be two ghosts, living in two small rooms made up specifically for them. One could be heard only in the dead of night, with just the priests and the other ghost around to hear him. Soft and then louder, his strangled cries permeated every inch of their holy haven when he thought the whole world was sleeping. The other ghost, the she-ghost, as she was called, was the ghost of a people - a flutter of skirts in an empty room, the flickering of a candle's flames that seemed too much like eyes. She was nowhere and everywhere. For some, she was a sign God was listening. "I swear it was her," an old woman had told the priest. "I asked the Holy Virgin for guidance and there she was." For others, she was a demon, haunting that holy home of Christ. "To pray for the end of vice," a young man had told his companion, "and to only see Lilith herself darting away from you! It's mockery, that's what it is." But, even with the sneers and secrecy, the little ghost liked her new phantasmal state. The whole of the Church was her domain. She danced around, humming off-key, exploring her palace in nothing but a nightgown and shawl, and trying so hard to stay out of sight.

On the first Wednesday of August, she knocked over a lamp on the balcony while watching the people below. An old lady at once went to the priests and warned them that there seemed to be a ghost of sorts in the church. Or, at least, a stray cat. The priests smiled and assure her that there were no ghosts in their church, but they would indeed look out for the cat. After that incident, the she-ghost was given a proper dress. Not as lovely as some of the ladies that came to pray, but a simple grey gown that would let her walk through the church without scaring poor old ladies. When her soldier-boy asked her why she was crying, she told him it was the ugly collar.

"It'll itch," she had said with a sniff.

In truth, it had just been too long since anyone had given her a proper dress, ugly collar or none. Still, he muttered under his breath (something, she was sure, about being stuck with such a wicked brat) and turned back to his book.

He was always reading, her soldier-boy. He read what interested him from the church's small collection and the kind priest's brother frequently stopped by, always with more books for her soldier-boy and never with anything for her. It was a lonely life the two ghosts led. He sat at his desk, buried in his book, all day and cried alone come nightfall. She, on the other hand, wandered unnamed and unseen, with no distraction from her own thoughts. Come night, the rain cried for her.

Eventually, she took to spending her days in his room, sitting silently on the foot of his bed. Whether he was ignoring her or oblivious to her, she could not say. But the steadiness of his breath, interspersed with the deep sighs as he read, was a small comfort in her lonely and ghostly life.

"What are you reading?" she asked one day.

He didn't even bother to look up at her. "Rousseau."

_Misère est mon trousseau  
__C'est la faute a Rousseau_

She knew that name well.

"Do you like it?"

"He has interesting ideas," was his monotonous reply.

_And do you, monsieur? _she thought, _or does your interesting always come in that slow and heavy tone?_ Despite being the most interesting person in her palace-prison, he was dreadfully boring. "What is the name of the book?"

"_Emile_."

"Have you read it before?"

"Yes."

"May I when you're done? I can read, you know."

Now he looked up at her, closing his book at setting it on his lap. "Whoever insinuated you couldn't?"

"I just haven't any books of my own."

He sighed. "If you asked, you'd be brought some."

She shook her head and sat on the edge of his bed. "That would be silly. A waste of money. I'll just read yours."

He scoffed and stood, setting his book down on the small desk. He began looking through the stack of books that had accumulated there. "None of these would interest you," he told her.

"Why not?"

"They're...political. I don't waste my time on silly romances."

She laughed, jumping up and walking over to him. "Oh, but that's very good! You see, I don't either."

But still her soldier-boy put his hand down on the stack of books. _These are mine_, his eyes screamed. And she understood, she did. They lived in such small quarters, she in her room, he in his. Neither of them had anything. The difference, she assumed, was that she was more accustomed to nothingness. But still, why should he get such a collection of books while she was left only her one dress?

"Please," she said, trying to make her voice softer. "Just let me look at one."

He sighed. "How old are you?"

"Old."

"Truly."

Refusing to answer, she reached around him and grabbed a lone apple from his desk and took a bite as large as her mouth could hold. It was tart, too tart, but she kept her eyes open and chewed, staring at him straight.

"Then tell me something," he said in that horrid monotone, his lips pressed together in a thin line that made her wonder if she should have bothered saving him at all. "How are you, _mademoiselle_, political? Do you have theories? What are your thoughts?"

Stomping her foot, she threw the apple to the floor and crossed her arms across her chest. "You're mocking me!"

"_Nonsense_, mademoiselle!" He lowered himself back into his chair and, resting his chin upon his hand, stared up at her with raised eyebrows and continued speaking with such false enthusiasm that it took all she had not to spit in his face. "I'm simply trying to have a chat with you. A discussion with a fellow intellectual. Surely a girl as smart as yourself can talk politically."

The girl swallowed and willed herself not to cover her ears against the furious pounding within her chest. She forced her eyes to stay open and focused on her damned soldier-boy as she stooped to retrieve the apple at her feet. "I went to war. I went to your war," she hissed as she straightened herself back up. "I fought! I was shot! And when they left you for dead, I brought you here!"

"So you're a hero then! It's no political theory, mademoiselle, but still a good story. You'll make a fine politician some day!" With a tight lipped smiled, he turned away from her, opening one of the volumes upon his desk.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Her desire not to cry taking all of her strength, she allowed the spoiled girl of her past to surface. Stomping her foot, she threw the apple at the man before her.

"Why must you insist on barging in here uninvited?" he asked without so much as a wince, simply bringing his hand to the fruit now in his lap, blocking it from the girl.

She took a step backwards, ready to race to the door at a moment's notice. "I was lonely," she whispered. "I thought perhaps you would be, too."

"Well, I'm not."

"Yes, I can see that. It appears as though you are stone down into your very soul." She turned to go, but stopped in the doorway, not daring to look back. "I don't think you care for anything, monsieur. And that's a shame. Your friends ought to have died for someone who would mourn them."

She was nearly around the corner when she heard the small pile of books cascade to the floor. It was an ugly sight - that ghost of a girl standing in the dark corridor, tears streaming as her face contorted into a twisted smile.

It was fortunate that, in her life, she had grown accustomed to avoiding people. A person could spend their days searching for her, but if she didn't want to be seen, she wouldn't be. But there was no challenge in avoiding her soldier-boy. He seldom left his room and so the church itself became her closest companion. She grew to know every stone, every stairwell. It wasn't her home, not truly, but it was the closest thing she had had in years. As long as she dressed properly and brushed her hair, she was even allowed to mass.

"No one I would have known would ever have come here," she had assured the priests. For a while, it was true. And then, on a day that should have been utterly ordinary, he was there.

She froze when she saw him. Part of her thought perhaps she could run into his arms and they'd run away, just as he had always talked about. Another part of her wanted to disappear back into the church and give herself into this new life, this life of piety and solitude. She let out an almost audible gasp when she realised that he was looking at her. But he simply tipped his hat and walked towards the altar, kneeling with his hat as his side. With a small sigh, she went and kneeled beside him.

"Are you atoning for your sins, monsieur?"

He shook his head. "No, mademoiselle. You see, my beloved's gone missing. I'm praying that one day, God will be good and send her home to me."

The girl balled her fists in her skirt. She knew quite clearly what he was doing. And so she made up her mind for herself; she would not leave here with him, no matter how guilty he made her feel.

"Haven't you heard, monsieur? God's dead. He's not looking out for you or your beloved. He's not even looking out for me."

Montparnasse clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Naughty, naughty girl. Haven't you learned you're in a church?"

"What do you want?"

"I have a whole family to pray for. I'm sure you understand. My father-in-law and his younger daughter leave on the morrow for America."

"So far?"

He nodded. "You see, he pulled a trick on a young man and got caught. Even worse for him, the man once knew his daughter - my intended. I believe they were friends once. Marius, I believe, is his name. The baron Pontmercy. You see, he was poor when he knew my love, but he's quite wealthy now and lives with his pretty, young wife."

Never once as he spoke did he look at her, something she would forever be grateful for.

"And what trick," she began, fighting to keep her voice steady. "What was the trick your father-in-law tried?"

"To get money from him, that type of thing. He had blackmail against the baronne's father. Yet he doesn't love her any less and demanded my poor father-in-law to leave France. So he is."

The girl nodded, her heart racing with fearful excitement. "I'm sure that the separation will be quite hard for you."

"Quite," he agreed. "Harder still for him and his daughter. You see, he's only just said his goodbyes to his wife."

The girl turned to face him. "Is she not joining them?" He did not miss the panic in her voice. Still not looking at her, he reached for where he knew her hand would be waiting and squeezed in tight.

"My mother-in-law died. I'm mourning her."

"How?"

"In prison," he told her, holding her hand tighter still as he felt the warmth of her tears drop to their intertwined fingers. "It's funny, though, my girl didn't care much for her. They had a poor relationship."

"But it was still her mother."

"Yes, that she was."

For nearly half an hour, they knelt there in silence, both mourning in their own way. The girl kept telling herself not to cry. _That's not my mother_, she told herself. _She might have been once but that is not my mother and I am not the girl who was her daughter._

A sharp squeeze of her hand brought her out of her thoughts.

"Who is that?"

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and followed her companion's gaze. In the far corner, the kind priest stood talking to a tall man in a simple brown overcoat. Noticing her stare, the man looked towards the young pair, but the young girl quickly averted her eyes. "That's Monsieur Palomer – his brother's a priest here. One serves God, they say, and the other a memory."

"I know him."

"In what way? His clothes don't look worth stealing."

He ignored this jibe. "I saw him on the street the other day - weeks ago actually. I took what I thought would be a sum of money. It was a letter."

"How exciting," the girl whispered coolly.

"Please. He's looking for an acquaintance of my father-in-law."

"Who?"

"A man he's known for years. My father-in-law had a third girl, back when they were all children. A foster girl. And this man came and adopted her. This man here is that man's nephew." He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and set it on the ground before him, keeping his eyes focused on the priest and his brother. "She'd know where to find him. My 'Ponine. Perhaps whatever God there is shall grant you her wisdom. Helping him would be a good thing, mademoiselle."

When he looked up, the paper was gone and he could see in the dimness the flash of a grey skirt darting around the corner. With a sad sigh, he put his hat back on his head and left the church.

Still inside its walls, the girl dashed about the church, looking everywhere she could until she found a pen. Very, very carefully, she scribbled upon the bottom of the letter, doing her best to keep her script legible, determined that this act would be the one that saved her soul.

_La Baronne Pontmercy._

It had to be - who else would he marry so soon? Who else could so easily take all that she herself wanted?

Pleased with her work, she went and slipped it under the door where she knew the kind priest's brother slept.

"What are you doing?" It was he.

She merely gasped and ran off. She would not become more involved in this than she already was. It brought too much risk of being named. It was silly, she knew, to remain unnamed as she was. But a girl without a name could be anyone. She could start over, live a life she would never otherwise have.

Her mother and brother were dead.

Two other brothers could very well be, for all she knew.

Her father had left, taking her sister with her.

And her only love, her one truest love, had married another.

The girl with a name had nothing. The nameless girl had hope.

Of course, as it so often does, hope did not come at once. In fact, it did not appear before her until the second week of September. It sat on her pillow in the shape of a book marked with letters she knew, but words she could not read. Grabbing it, she raced down the corridor, skidding to a halt before her soldier-boy's door. With a deep breath, she knocked.

"Come in."

"It's me."

"I know." And so she pushed open the door and entered his room. A thick volume lay open on his desk. She stood in the doorway, hesitant to truly interrupt him. But he had invited her in.

"What is this?" she demanded, holding the mysterious book out in front of her. He barely glanced at her before looking back at his desk.

"_A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_. I thought you may enjoy it."

She threw the book upon the desk. "I think you're still mocking me."

"Nonsense," he responded and, this time, there was no malice. He picked up the book and held it out to her. "Mary Wollstonecraft. A quite impressive writer on the eve of the Revolution. Women, she argued, ought to be more than pretty faces. Your minds, she believed, functioned just as well as our own."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I can only read in French. This is nothing for me."

Her soldier-boy stared back and forth between her and the book. "I apologise, I shouldn't have assumed." He looked around the room. "See that chair there? Bring it here."

Biting her lip, she obeyed, sitting herself there beside him. Running a hand through his blond curls, he stared at the desk, his lips pressed into a thin line. She jumped as he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Monsieur Palomer tells me that you, mademoiselle, are an angel sent from Heaven."

The girl smiled a little, noticing that, for perhaps the first time, there was nothing in his tone to mock her. He may have been affirming her mere existence for all the straightforwardness of his voice. "Does his brother agree?"

He shrugged, running his finger across the cover. "It seems to be a consensus amongst the priests that this poor little nameless child is a angel of God."

"I'm afraid they're quite wrong."

"Priest have a tendency for thinking everyone is either an angel or the devil. Don't let it worry you." Once more, he spoke as though the girl's very nature was as simple as the colour of her hair. She stared at him wide-eyed, only blinking when he spoke again. "Now! Miss Wollstonecraft."

She sighed. "I told you. I can't read it."

"Ah." He paused for a long moment. "Well, you see mademoiselle, it's been quite lonely in here. Perhaps we'll read together. I shall read aloud, translating the English to French, and you shall tell me what you think."

The girl nodded, taken aback by his sudden kindness. "I'm sorry for the way I've acted since we've gotten here," she told him quietly, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I might have assumed you would want to be alone. I should not have been so rude to you."

"And I to you," he said, meeting her gaze for the first time since she had entered the room. "I'm afraid I was rather harsh with you. I forget sometimes that you have lost people just as I have."

"Yes." Everything that brought light into her life had been lost that day. She could still hear one sweet voice singing in her ear as another face smiled at her through her closed lids, a face that, in all likelihood, she would never see again. With a gasp, her eyes sprung open as she stared ahead, suddenly humiliated. She could feel her cheeks redden with each passing second. Oh, how could she have been so foolish as to never say anything?

"Are you alright?"

She shook her head. "I meant to tell you something, but I was angry. I forgot."

He stared at her, his face not betraying any anger whatsoever.

"Aren't you cross with me?"

"Not until I know what I should be cross about."

The girl took a deep breath, prepared to face the full of her soldier-boy's wrath.

"Are you scared of me?" he asked before she could begin. "You know I will never hurt you, don't you?"

To his surprise, her response came in the form of a soft hiss, the tremor of her voice barely audible. "Do you remember our first meeting, monsieur?"

To her complete shock, he smiled. "I seem to recall a bloody little thing pulling me from a window."

But the girl had seen and heard too much in her short life. She did not smile back. True, the boy was her only companion - the nearest thing she would ever again have to a friend - but she would not trust him.

"After that," and her voice was no warmer than before.

Her soldier-boy wasn't laughing anymore. "Is this a trick question, mademoiselle?"

"I recall a big hand reaching for my neck."

"Mademoiselle -"

"Have you ever had anyone try to strangle you before, monsieur?"

This time, he knew to stay silent.

"I have, monsieur. It is not an experience I ever intend on going through again." Still silence. "I am scared of you, monsieur, because should you attack me again -"

"I swear, mademoiselle, I don't know what came over me then, but I owe you my life. I would never..." He trailed off at the sight of her raised hand.

"I don't care for excuses. Should you attack me again, I will have saved your life for nothing. I did not take a bullet through my breast only to be mocked, insulted, and harassed by something as weak as a man. I am scared of you not because you frighten me, not because you're some big clever man and I'm some pathetic little girl. I am scared because too many men are fools enough to think that. I am scared that _you _are not properly afraid of me."

For a minute, both sat in silence. Finally, with a deep breath, he extended his hand, only to immediately draw it back. He stared at it as thought it was a foreign object. But again, he extended it, so very, very slowly, and let it hover a few inches from her arm.

"I will never hurt you. Upon my life."

Her lips ever so slightly curving upwards, she reached for the hand still hovering by her shoulder and clasped it in both her own.

"I couldn't carry you here myself. I had help."

He nodded. He could remember a deep voice shifting quickly between anger and adoration.

"He came once to visit me."

"And I assume he brought you some sort of news?"

The girl nodded and bit her lip. Now she was the one refusing to make eye contact. After a deep breath, she opened her mouth and let fall: "Pontmercy is alive."

In that moment, her soldier-boy's stony exterior seemed to crack. What emotion it was that crossed his face, she could not say. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. His face was once more utterly unreadable.

"You know him?"

She paused. To say she knew him would be the same as stating her name. Should her soldier-boy go to his friend and tell him of her, surely she would lose all anonymity.

"Only that he fought with you and still lives."

"Is he happy?"

"He's married."

"Very well." With that, he opened the book and began reading from the introduction.

"Monsieur?" she interrupted, hoping that her voice was not as high as it sounded to her own ears. "Won't you send word to him?"

Her soldier-boy shook his head. "No. If he's happy, I will not bother him."

"And if he's lonely?"

"He has his wife."

For a moment, all she could do was silently search for words and pray that he would turn to face her again. Leaning forward, she placed a soft hand on his shoulder. "And what of his friends? Your friends. He doesn't have them."

Her soldier-boy's eyes fluttered shut as his lips once more pressed together so tightly they all but disappeared. "We all have our passions, mademoiselle. His is love, mine is justice."

"But surely the two _must_ overlap."

"I'm sure they do. But suppose Marius is happy in his marriage and then I appear on his doorstep. 'Help me,' I demand of him. And what can he do but obey? He starts harbouring a fugitive and his wife must leave for her own safety and reputation. Do I risk upsetting his happiness with the memories of our fallen comrades?"

The girl was very quiet. She simply pulled her knees up to her chin and continued to stare at the rise and fall of his chest. He made her wonder, her soldier-boy. He made her think. _For a man of stone_, she dared not say aloud, _you care more deeply than I thought_. She smiled to herself and began toying with the hem of her skirt, refusing to look up. For a long while, neither said anything. She could feel her soldier-boy's eyes upon her, but still focused on her own feet. Taking cue of her silence, he opened the book and began to read.

e-e-e-e-e

As summer turned to autumn, the city of Paris moved on from its summer upheaval. The foolishness of schoolboys would not upset such a great city for long. The sun shone bright and, for many, this was all that was needed for joy. Children played in the streets, dancing through their mother's skirts. Lovers walked through the parks, basking in the last days of summer warmth.

In the middle of the city, one man stood alone. Strawberry-blond locks framed his face in such mad tangles that a small girl bumped in to him and began to cry. He could not find it within himself to care. He was standing in the middle of the September street, blinking in the too bright sun. Autumn afternoons were his favourites once, but now it took all of his power not to scream. The sun was too hot on his skin, the breeze too cold. The air was too fresh and the noises too loud. All of the beauty of Paris was gone. He had once found beauty everywhere, but now all he saw was terror.

When the guard had given him his hat that morning and told him that the date was September the fourteenth, eighteen-hundred thirty two, he had been in shock. How was it already September?

How was it still 1832?

He spent that first day wandering through Paris, searching for a familiar face.

He spent that first night wondering if he'd have better luck finding his friends at the bottom of the Seine or in some unmarked grave. But morning found him still on the streets.

He finally gave in and let himself kneel in an empty alley and cry. For over three months, he had been held captive from the world, captive from the sun. He had been unconscious, as good as asleep, when all of his friends fell dead. He had not been able to save a single one of them. In the loneliness of nightfall, he often thought of what he could have done differently, but it was all so fast, so blurred. He had been surrounded by soldiers, men fighting against his own.

"Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!" His own words sang out in his mind. He had expected the report of guns and yet all he felt was a sharp blow to the back of his head. And then nothing.

Did his friends fight for him? Had Enjolras gathered them around and called out "We fight for our fallen comrade, we fight for Prouvaire"? Had his friends then fought for him and died for naught?

He collapsed to the ground, lying now on his stomach, and retched up all he could. And when he was done, he stood and walked from shade to sun. He didn't even know where he was anymore. He had spent most of his life in Paris and still knew nothing. Pressing his hands to his face, still shocked at the beard he found there, he sank back down, right there on the street, and leaned back against whatever building was unlucky enough to be behind him.

And then there was something warm in his hand and the sun no longer burnt his face. Looking down, he saw in his hand what appeared to be a fresh roll. Without bothering to look at whoever was blocking the sun from his face, he brought the bread to his lips.

"I thank you," was all he could manage to mutter before he began shoving the roll into his mouth, not caring at all how mad he looked. When only seconds later he had swallowed the last crumb, he looked up to properly thank the giver.

A young woman in all black as bent over him, thick dark curls falling over her shoulders. He let out a gasp.

"Mademoiselle Lanoire."

The woman straightened, a look of fear and, somehow, frustration upon her face.

"God bless you," she told him, her tone almost cold as turned away.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Lanoire!" he heard her hiss.

"No! No, no, no!" He threw himself forward and grabbed her skirt. Mademoiselle Lanoire let out an indignant shriek and spun around.

"Do not think, monsieur, that I have not heard snark like your own every day of my life. But you looked like a man in need. Someone with a sense of gratitude. Or at least the decency of silence."

"Your dress," he dared whisper.

"What? You worried perhaps it was just skin rather than clothe?"

He shook his head, desperate for the right words. "You always used to dress in black."

Mademoiselle Lanoire bit her lip, looking, if anything, more nervous than before.

"You used to walk in the Luxembourg with an old man, with old white hairs. Monsieur Leblanc."

The woman took step back.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I'm afraid you have me mistaken for another."

"No, please!" He lunged himself forward and grasped at her skirt once more. And, again, Mademoiselle Lanoire screamed.

"Please, mademoiselle! Cosette! Cosette, that is your name!"

She stopped her frantic search for assistance and dropped to her knees before him, her eyes wide as they bore into his own.

"Tell me how you know my name," she demanded in a voice that no being could ever bear to lie to.

"My friend," he said, bowing his head in shame. "He fancied you terribly. Why, he was practically singing the first time he managed to speak to you properly." He laughed, brushing the tears from his eyes. "He came running into the café where we'd meet, raving about how Ursule wasn't Ursule at all and that what she was was worlds better." For a moment, he thought of telling this Cosette how Marius had fought – bravely, he was sure – and how he had fallen – nobly, he was certain. But if this girl had had for Marius half the affection he had expressed for her…He could not bare to watch a woman cry. But before he could think further, he could feel Cosette's breath against his face, her nose mere inches from his own as she studied him with glistening eyes.

"Merciful God," she whispered and pressed her hands to his arms. He could feel her trembling, as she pulled him until he stood. She then hooked her arm through his and beckoned him to walk with her. He was too tired to even protest.

Somewhere it must have been considered a sin for a man as ragged as himself to carry such a fine woman on his arm, but together they walked through Paris and he tried to relearn where he was. But at each turn was just another city street. Finally, they came upon a large home where Cosette opened the door with still shaking hands.

"Wait here," she told him softly, and then disappeared. He stood perfectly still. Perhaps once he would have been allowed in such a fine place, but surely he was no longer. He should leave. How strange it would be for a man such as himself to follow home such a pretty young girl. No, her face was kindness enough, a reminder of all the beauty there was in the world, of how that face had once inspired such love and passion in his friend. No, he would not further intrude on Mademoiselle Lanoire's life.

He was about to turn and leave when upstairs a door slammed with such force the entire house shook. Feet began pounding down the stairs and he feared that his presence had upset perhaps a father, brother, or husband. But before he could rationalise the situation, a ghost appeared in the archway. A tall, lean man with red brown hair pushed up in all directions stood staring at him with an expression not so different from his own. For a long while, the two men watched each other wordlessly. It was a harsh revelation. A beautiful, glorious, harsh revelation. And then the two embraced with such force that they tumbled to the floor. At first, the only sound in the house was that of their mad laughter - that joyful sound of recognition and of love, of pure and utter relief. And, slowly, the laughter turned to sobs.

"We are the only ones left?" asked Jehan, already sure of the answer.

Marius said nothing. Instead, the two just continued to hold each other. They were, they knew, the only ones left. And still that was better, worlds better, than being the only one left alone.

e-e-e-e-e

"'…instead of being supported by the reason and virtue of their fathers and brothers, have strengthened their own minds by struggling with their vices and follies; yet have never-'"

"Do you agree with him?"

The soldier-boy looked up from the book, now all too used to his companion's constant interruptions. "Whom?"

"Rousseau."

"On certain aspects."

The girl sighed. September had ended and the church was growing colder. And each night, after the priests went to sleep, she snuck to her soldier-boy's room and there they read until their eyes ached. And, in all this time, they had yet to finish that book, their peace treaty. "It takes time," he constantly assured her. "Wollstonecraft references a great many other writers. If we did not stop to discuss them, we'd never know what she herself is saying."

Straightening her skirt, the girl stood and began to pace about the room. Her soldier-boy placed the book on his lap and lifted a hand to massage his temple. It was late, but he had long since learned that dissuading the girl from anything only caused her to demand it more.

"Do you agree with him on education?"

He smiled and laughed, watching as his companion took a seat on the windowsill and scrutinised him with her bird-like eyes.

"Please don't laugh at me."

"I'm sorry. Just, Rousseau says a great many things on education. I know you'd rather not listen to me talk for hours and hours, so perhaps there was something specific you'd rather discuss?"

"Girls' education. What's-her-name, Emile's girl."

"Ah, Sophie."

"Yes. I don't like what he says."

He bit the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh again. "You haven't read it."

"But _she_ has," she said. Soldier-boy raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue. "She's saying that our education - that is to say, that of the female sex - should not be so limited. She's saying that we ought to be intellectual companions to men, that even if all we are are wives and mothers, we ought to be able to converse as men do. And yet Rousseau simply thought that our entire education should pertain to your sex. That we are nothing if we cannot please the male mind and…less intellectual parts." She grinned as her soldier-boy flushed crimson and dropped his gaze. "And I think that's quite silly indeed."

The soldier-boy ran his thumb along the pages of the book before taking a deep breath and placing it upon the desk. "You know," he began, moving to sit beside her at the window. "I used to think he was right. That women were simply meant to be pretty things. So I didn't concern myself with them."

"Why?"

"Because I had no need for simple pleasures. I would rather put my passions elsewhere. And I knew so few women and practically none who shared my interests. I deemed the entire sex as being unworthy of my time."

"But you've changed your mind?"

He didn't respond.

"Monsieur?"

"Mademoiselle?"

"You haven't talked with any women before, have you? Not really?"

Her soldier-boy laughed what was perhaps his truest laugh in all the months they had known each other. "You would have liked them, you know. They'd have liked you."

"Your friends?"

He nodded and turned his head away. She watched as he brought a hand to his face and, for a moment, sat still as his shoulders trembled. Just as she raised her hand to place upon his shoulder, he took a deep breath and turned to face her.

"I have a cousin," he said quickly. "A girl your own age, or near about."

The girl smiled, her hands now folded in her lap, hidden in the folds of her skirt. "She's family, then. That doesn't count."

He ignored her. "An incredibly clever young lady. She could make me look like a fool. But I always assumed her intellect made her unique in her sex."

"And now you think otherwise?"

He nodded, turning away from her. "You're a smart girl. Smarter than I think you realise. Were you a man, I think you would have paved quite the life for yourself."

"Well, that's silly," she murmured, standing and walking back to the desk, examining the stack of books she had yet to read.

"That I think you're clever?"

"That a person must be a man to make their own way in the world."

She continued picking up books, examining them, and setting them down again, allowing her fingers to trace each title and wondering when the day would come when she would be the one reading aloud.

"Yes," came his voice directly behind her and she jumped and turned. He smiled and took the book from her hands. "Quite silly, indeed."

He walked to his bed and sat down at the foot of it. "Have you read Condorcet?"

The girl shook her head.

"We'll read him after Wollstonecraft. A bit of a radical, but I think you'll appreciate it."

"I'm sure I will, monsieur."

When silence fell again, it lacked all the warmth and comfort that their shared silences had had in the past. In truth, neither knew anything about the other. To him, she was as she was to the rest of the world: a ghost. To her, he was perhaps the closest thing she would ever have again to a friend. But her soldier-boy did not have friends, as he had made clear on countless occasions. And, as he made clear now, what friends he had were not of her sex. She wondered if, for him, there was any friendship, any camaraderie between them. Or, perhaps, if their relationship was based solely on debts that could never be paid.

"Sebastien." His words broke through her reverie with such forced that she dropped the book she had just picked up – Voltaire. Another name she was familiar with.

"Who?" Sebastien was a common name, she knew, but if he was a philosopher, his works were as foreign to her as all the rest.

Her soldier-boy shrugged. "My name," and he looked at her as though daring her to give her own.

"Oh," was her only response.

He looked down at his lap and, before he could open his mouth, she turned and ran from the room. She did not stop until she was in her own, door bolted, and clutched the footboard of her bed to keep from shaking.

He had given her his name. An identifier. A thing that was his to respond to. He was not like her. He was not a nobody without a soul to care about him. He had a name. He had people to return to, a family. Outside of this church, should he seek it, a life waited for him.

All at once it occurred to her how very, very alone she was.

Without bothering to change into her nightgown, the girl crawled into her bed and let herself cry. She thought back to a time when sobbing at night brought a loving mother and a concerned father running to her bedside to ensure the well-being of their darling angel. But that was only a memory. No one would come to her aide. Not even soldier-boy – Sebastien. She rolled to her side and stared at the lone candle on the bedside table, flickering as wind came through her open window.

_I should shut it_, she thought, for she had no desire to ever feel the cold as she so often had in winters past. But she couldn't bring herself to rise.

_What does it matter? I was always destined to freeze._ It was not, she assumed, as though anyone would care when she was gone. No. He was Sebastien. He was not her soldier-boy, he was not her friend. He was barely her tutor. He was a man with a name and she was nobody, simply a voice to pass the time as he waited for a new life to start.

* * *

**A/N #2: The quotation from the beginning of the third section, "...instead of being supported..." is also not me. That's my homegirl, Mary Wollstonecraft, chapter 5 of _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_, page 173 in the "Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought" edition. I knew taking a class on the Enlightenment would come in handy eventually.**


	4. The Caged Bird Still Sings

**A/N: Wow! Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed. Seriously. I love you all so much - I can't put it into words.**

**Thank you, Mel, for being an utter goddess.**

**Disclaimer: Les Mis still isn't mine**

* * *

"Do you have a spare blanket?"

Sebastien looked up to see the girl standing in his doorway, wearing only her nightgown and her own blanket, draped over her shoulders, as protection from the late October chill.

"It's past one, mademoiselle. You should be sleeping."

With an exaggerated sigh, she sauntered to his bed and plopped herself down on the end. "I _can't._ Anyway, that doesn't answer my question. Do you?"

Standing from the small desk, he moved to sit beside her. "I'm sorry. I only have what's on the bed."

The girl rolled her eyes and let herself fall backwards. "I could just stay here, I suppose. Your room's warmer than mine, I think."

Sebastien flushed and moved himself further from her. "You probably left your window open."

"The walls are confining."

In another life, he may have laughed at her. But he understood. Life in a single building could never be anything but confining. So he simply nodded and asked, "Didn't I give you that Pizan? I often find reading relaxing when I can't sleep."

"That's different," she whined.

"Oh?"

"You never sleep anyway."

At that, he couldn't help but laugh. "Then clearly I don't read as much as I should." He ducked as his own pillow came flying at his face. "Do I bore you as a companion?"

"Yes," she said with another heavy sigh as she pushed herself back to sitting. "My eyes would like to sleep, but there is too much in my head."

"And you came to share it with me?"

She shook her head. "I just thought I'd sit here for a while, monsieur."

In the month since he had given her his name, she had never once used it. He remained monsieur and she mademoiselle. Sebastien never left her lips. She sealed it deep within her as she did with her own name and those of the people she might have once known. It was as deep within her as everything else she possessed. All he knew of her was her sharp wit and her inability to sing - though that never stopped the constant tunes that came from her room. "You're worse than a bird," he had told her. She had laughed at that and cooed in his face. It was one of many conversations that reminded the young revolutionary that his companion could be no more than a child, prone to pulling pranks and laughing too hard at unintended jokes.

Now, looking at the girl sitting at the foot of his bed, it was his own turn to sigh. If he were to be honest with himself, he felt guilty. True, the girl had come to the barricade of her own volition, but he still, in a way, felt just as responsible for the loss of her life as he did for the deaths of his friends. "Very well. Tell me a story."

The girl's hand immediately stopped picking at her sleeve. "I'm sorry?"

Sebastien shrugged. "I'm not sleeping either. So you may as well entertain me with your busy mind."

"You'll be disappointed then, monsieur. I'm not in a philosophising mood. I just want to sit, not remember all your silly philosophers."

"Oh, come! You were a child not long ago."

"Is that an insult?"

Again, he shrugged. "Little girls like their stories. My cousin used to spin the most wild of stories. Surely you remember some of your childhood. Didn't you ever tell stories? Stories that don't have a deep philosophic story. Just words."

"Once."

"When you had a name?"

That earned him a small laugh, but when he looked up, the girl was looking at her lap, a sad smile upon her face. "When I had a name."

"Then tell me a story."

"No."

"No?"

The girl shook her head and stood. "You should sleep, monsieur."

He stood and went to open the door for her. "Have I scared you away?"

The girl snorted. "Monsieur Sebastien _le philosophe_ wants a fairy tale."

"Humour me."

"Humour you?" She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow.

"You think you're quite clever."

"So I've been told."

"Very well, then. I thought perhaps you would like to tell a story."

The girl sighed once more, though this time there was no humorous exaggeration. "You're nearly healthy again."

"That's not a story, mademoiselle. That is fact."

"You'll have to leave here soon."

"I suppose I shall."

"Goodnight, monsieur." He could not miss the way her voice cracked when she pulled away from him to leave. But he decided to let her leave like that, as she too often did, to cry herself to sleep and let herself believe he would not know.

The first week after he decided to tolerate her had many nights that ended as such. They would come to a concept she did not know, he would, as best he could, explain it to the child. She would then berate him for patronising her and he would let her know exactly what he thought of her. Once he had provoked her to slapping him hard across the face, but normally she would spit back something equally as vile before running off to her own room.

Come morning, all would be well. And, after that week, he learned that, despite her childlike eyes and maturity, his companion was not the little doll he thought all of her sex to be. She thought with a man's mind (a more recent comment that got him hit over the head with her precious Wollstonecraft), so he stopped treating her like a child and started treating her as if she were a man. He explained the philosophy as a university professor would, as though they were equals. For a time, that had worked. But the last week, as their lessons moved from his room to nooks all over the church, he was frequently reminded of the mental frailty of her sex. More than once in the last week had she completely strayed from the topic, only to stand up in the midst of her own conversation and leave.

The night before, she had caught him distractedly looking out the window.

"What has so captivated you, monsieur?" she had asked, playfully slapping his leg to draw his attention back to her.

"I've missed the stars."

She had gasped mockingly. "Our noble leader? Missing the stars!"

Solemnly, he had looked at her. "The sky is expansive, mademoiselle. I shall be glad to be out there again."

She had let out a _humph_ at that and, upon reading two more lines from their book, she had abruptly slammed it shut and left without so much as a "Goodnight, monsieur."

As his health improved, so did his humour. Yet she grew more bitter with each passing day.

_It's as though she wishes I remained ill,_ he thought, listening as her footsteps faded down the corridor. _She doesn't want me to be free. She doesn't even want to be free herself._

Yawning, he shut the door and undressed for bed. Lighting a candle, he crawled into bed and prepared to read himself to sleep, unwilling to think more of his peculiar companion. Yet, she would not leave his mind. Such an odd girl, and so very young. Avoiding attention would be no easy task when they left their little haven. No, finding her a situation, a discreet one, would be a challenge.

Blinking, he sat straight up in bed, sending his book clattering to the floor. Suddenly her behaviour was no longer surrounded by the mysteries of the female mind. Throwing on his dressing gown, he grabbed the candle and raced from his room.

"Mademoiselle," he only half whispered, knocking softly on her door. "Please, I need to speak with you."

There was a shuffle and then the door opened, the girl staring up at him through heavy lids.

"It's late," she said, pushing her thick dark braid behind her shoulder. "Past two, I think."

"You don't have a family, no relations."

Closing her eyes, the girl sucked in a deep breath. "Yes, monsieur. Shockingly, this is something of which I'm quite aware."

"You're alone."

"Sebastien!" He had never before heard her voice so tired as it did when she used his name. Her eyes found his and, as he had so many weeks before, so many months, found himself wondering if she was a girl at all. Her eyes, which had always reassured him of her youth, suddenly looked decades older than they had moments before.

"Monsieur," she said in a heavy tone. "I know this. But it's a thought for the day. For my own mind. You should be sleeping. I feel bad knowing you are up with thoughts of me."

He shook his head. "You think I'm going to leave here when my health is restored."

"As you've told me. And it's only right. Monsieur le cure's hospitality and generosity defy all I know of this world."

"And you?"

The girl gave a sad smile and leaned her head against the doorframe. "I'm a clever girl, monsieur. I'll find my way."

"You're a silly girl. You think I'm going to leave you here."

The girl immediately stood to her full height and stared at him with wide, and suddenly awake, eyes, her lips slightly parted. For a moment, Sebastien allowed himself the pleasure of knowing his hypothesis was correct. But then, very slowly (as was his habit when initiating contact with this strange little creature), he placed a hand on her upper arm and squeezed lightly.

"I owe you my life, mademoiselle. Don't think I will leave you alone to find your own way." She bit her lip as he released her arm. "Do try and sleep, mademoiselle," he murmured and he turned to leave.

"Sebastien!"

He spun around with a finger pressed to his lips. "The good priest is long asleep!"

The girl grinned through the fingers splayed across her mouth. "Do you still want a story?"

"A fairy tale?"

She nodded. "Humour me. I'm a child, remember?"

He smiled at that and gestured for her to lead the way to their newest spot, a small alcove on the highest story with a large window - the closest either got to Paris.

She placed herself on the windowsill, curling her legs up to her chest. As he placed the candle between them, he could not help but notice the way she stared at her own feet, not so much as glancing up when he sat down beside her.

"So, mademoiselle, tell me your fairy tale."

"I should warn you, it is not the happiest of tales," she said, still playing with the hem of her nightgown.

"All the more interesting."

"Very well," she sighed, pulling her shawl tighter around her, clearly having already decided on her tale. "Then I shall start at the beginning:

"This is a princess story. I hope that doesn't disappoint you. I don't think I'll care much even if it does. It is the story of the happiest princess to ever live and her story must be told. She was very young, this princess. And, when the story starts, she was the first of two. These two princesses were happy as can be. Plump and pretty, their parents, the king and queen, gave them all they could desire. One day, as the first princess approached her third year, another little girl appeared. This girl was not a princess. So, when she was left in the care of the king and queen, she was treated as such. Frills and lace and pretty dolls were saved for the princesses. The third girl darned their socks. The years passed and the princesses grew lovelier and lovelier. Life was happy. Eventually, a little prince was born, but that mattered not. The king and queen loved their little princesses and all was bliss.

"But one day everything changed. Another king came to the castle, a king far richer and more powerful than the father of the two princesses. He came bearing dolls and smiles and all things desired by happy children. But his gifts and kind words weren't for the two princesses. They were, in fact, for the third girl. It turned out that she too had been a princess all along and the new king was here to take her as his own daughter. When he saw her dressed in rags, he placed a curse on the king and queen and all their children. But the old king had only laughed, for they were good people who god would not see fit to curse. They had made a mistake, an honest one.

"But by the next winter, the king's authority was wavering. Less and less lace appeared on the dresses of the young princesses and, before long, the once plump and lovely girls grew skinny and ugly. Lace turned to rags in their hands. Two more babies came to their mother, but they were not princes as their brother had been. They were nothing to the public and less to their parents. Even that first son lost what little affection had been spared to him, leftover affection from the princesses who weren't princesses any longer.

"They lost their title and their home, not to revolutionaries as yourself, monsieur, but to the curse. For they had wronged that third little girl, the secret princess, and god abandoned them. The secret princess grew lovely in her palace but the rest grew poorer and uglier as the years passed. In the end of her fifteenth year however, the girl who had once been a princess saw, however, a sign of hope and renewal.

"A young duke befriended her. Once, she may have desired only a prince. But the duke was kind to her, kinder than anyone had been since she lost her crown. She grew to love him, for what's a princess story without romance? At night, she would fall asleep in his arms. Come morning, she would realise it had been the wind holding her through the night, for her duke would never love her. No, for another had stolen his heart. A beautiful princess who had spent her childhood in rags. Yes, monsieur, the very same secret princess who had shared her childhood with she who was now less than nothing.

"But then the unthinkable happened. A war broke out and all the young men, the duke included, went to fight. The poor girl grew mad with a sick mixture of grief and joy. Should her duke fight in the war, he was likely to die and the thought of him dying filled her with unthinkable dread. But should he die, and should she join him, he would be hers for eternity, forever in the truest heaven there was,"

Here she fell silent, her eyes still focused on her feet. There her gaze remained, even when he spoke.

"So how does it end? Your... story."

It was several minutes before she acknowledged him. Finally, she raised her eyes until they met his, but he could not help but feel as though it was not him she was looking at. Behind those eyes, he was certain, was a world he would never know, never understand. He had known this since the first time he had looked at her. But now, for the first time, he wanted to know. He smiled, hoping to encourage her to finish her tale. And she did.

"She died, monsieur. She went to the battle and was killed. For the first time, when she fell asleep in the gentle arms of her duke, it was real."

"Did she succeed?"

"If you view death as success, monsieur."

"In heaven. Did he join her in heaven?"

The girl sighed and pushed herself off the windowsill. "There is no heaven, monsieur. There's not even hell, except that which is on Earth. I suppose that's the real tragedy. She never got to find him. She never even got to know if he followed her. I told you - it's not a happy story." She yawned and hugged herself. "What time is it?"

"Past three. Probably nearing four."

"I'm sorry, then, to have kept you awake."

He stood and, holding the candle in front of him, walked her back to her room. "It's of little consequence," he told her as they walked. "It was a good story. Perhaps one day you'll tell me another."

"Perhaps." Without another word, she shut door and left him alone in the corridor to ponder the depths of her tale.

e-e-e-e-e

Slowly October became November. The days grew shorter and shorter and, after a quick period of the most intense of autumn colours, the world grew melancholy. Life became a routine. Each Monday, Thursday, and, to his wife's disapproval, Sunday, Maris Pontmercy would join Jean Prouvaire in the Luxembourg and, bundled against the growing cold, the two would play a silent game of chess. They would return home and have a small drink with Cosette. On Mondays and Thursdays, the three would all have their supper together with the two young boys whom Cosette had vowed to raise as her own (or, as Aunt Gillenormand constantly reminded her, until the whore - that is to say their mother - could be found).

On Sundays, however, Jehan would come to the Pontmercy's for a drink, but leave soon after, each week with a different excuse. Almost as soon as he left, there would be a knock at the door and Grandfather would allow in the baronne's pretty friend with the Italian name he could never seem to get right ("Musichetta," Marius sighed week after week. "Honestly, Grandfather, it's not so hard") and the young lady's incredibly French grandmother, who seemed to take great joy in Monsieur Gillenormand's inability to pronounce anything remotely Italian.

It was an odd, unspoken arrangement that all traces of Jehan were gone before Musichetta set foot in the house. It had all started on the eighteenth of September, four days after Marius found his comrade standing in the entrance hall. Musichetta had come for tea and coffee with the Pontmercys, as she so often did, and upon seeing her, Jehan had all but jumped out of his chair and, nearly in tears, had kissed her upon each cheek. In return, Musichetta had fainted. "That must be the first time Musichetta Marmo has fainted in her whole life," he had said in a shaking voice as Marius carried Musichetta to the couch. She woke up sobbing and, for the first time, Marius saw the depth of all the grief and anger that he and Cosette had always known were boiling inside her.

After that, despite Cosette's attempts to keep the peace, Jehan would make himself scarce the moment the seamstress's name was brought up. He asked about her each time he saw Cosette. "Joly was one of my dearest friends. Lesgle as well. 'Chetta was my friend once too." But she never asked about him. Marius was a friend of her boys, but it was not the same. He was a boy with French blood and a good head. And though it killed her that he survived the battle when her own boys could not, she knew he was not part of their society. It was not his battle to fight in the first place. Jehan, on the other hand...

"It makes sense to her," Cosette had explained to her husband as she curled herself into his chest one October night. "It's not that she wishes he were dead. Whatever she may say, she still values his friendship. But you've said so yourself: you had a great many friends among those boys, darling, but as individuals, not as a collective. For her, he's different from you. He represents them all."

Marius had waited, as he always did, for Cosette to sleep before he let himself cry. Another unspoken arrangement. Cosette would slow her breathing, Marius would cry, and Cosette, never speaking or opening her eyes, would hold him tighter. True, he had not always been a Friend of the A.B.C, but he loved them all the same.

On the second Sunday of November, Marius insisted that Jehan not leave until they said goodbye. And then, squeezing his wife's shoulder, he got into his carriage and left. Jehan stared out into the rain after him.

"He's getting Musichetta, isn't he?"

"It's pouring, it's only polite."

"I suppose." And the two fell silent.

Cosette watched as Jehan moved from the window to Marius's desk to the fireplace. She watched as his fingers ghosted along the mantel, lingering for the slightest moment on the rosette that lay next to the small portrait that Grandfather had done in honour of Cosette and Marius's marriage.

"Jehan?"

"Mmm?"

"Smile. Please."

"For you, Cosette? Always."

Cosette smiled. "You and my husband are truly the mot chivalrous of gentleman."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jehan walked over to where she sat on the couch. "We must be, Madame, in the presence of such a lady."

With a laugh, Cosette hit him affectionately on the arm. "Come," she said, pulling at his wrist. "Sit with me."

Ever the gentleman, he obeyed.

"I worry about you," she told him candidly. "Marius, too. We were up talking of you last night, you know."

Jehan bowed his head. Despite the misunderstanding of their first meeting, the two had taken a great and immediate liking to each other. As quickly as Jean Valjean had become her father, Jean Prouvaire became her brother. Yet the joy she had so easily brought to her father could not mask Prouvaire's despair. _Or perhaps_, she thought, _I am just now old enough to know when I'm deceived. _

Squeezing her hand, Jehan placed a light kiss on her forehead. "That's a very silly thing indeed, Cosette. You've only been married a few months. Surely you and your husband have better things to do in bed than discuss me."

But Cosette didn't laugh. "Please, Jehan. You're our dearest friend. You and 'Chetta. And please believe me when I say it kills me to have things as they are. You're both too dear to me for this nonsense to continue."

"Which is why you won't let me leave until your husband returns. And he will return with Mademoiselle Marmo. It's crueller to her than to me."

"Please," she said softly, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to it. "For me. For Marius."

Jehan sighed. "And what of her grandmother? She knows nothing of 'Chetta's life. And you know full well that both of us will cry at least once tonight. What will you say then?"

"Her grandmother has a bit of a head cold tonight. She's coming alone. A baron's too good of a friend to abandon for an old lady. 'Even if his baronne's off-colour.'"

Despite her laugh, Jehan pulled her close. "She didn't really say that, did she?"

"Mm-hm."

"Off-colour? Really?"

"Oh, yes. I think it's quite funny."

"Liar."

Silently, Cosette leaned into him. He held her for a moment, rubbing her arm and caressing her as a man cares for his young sister.

"It's better than the alternative."

"Thinking it's funny?"

Cosette nodded against him. "If I can't laugh at the way I'm treated, I'll cry. If I cry, I'll become angry and, if I become angry, I shall give people all the more reason to hate me. You know, more people call me 'girl' than they do 'Madame la Baronne.' Why, just Tuesday I went with 'Chetta to pick up a hat for Marius, my Marius, and that hatter asked her if he should give her the box or if her girl would carry it." Jehan pulled her tighter hearing her voice thicken in her throat. "Marius, and my father before him, may buy me the finest clothes they can afford. But I could be the best dressed lady in Paris and I would still only be the little dark girl who thinks she can play Baronne. So I laugh at them because at least that reminds me that they're wrong."

He said nothing when she stopped. Nowhere on earth lived there a woman more kind and deserving of all the world than Cosette Pontmercy. No woman could pinch her husband's wrist to make sure his head was as high as her own when they went about the city.

"How on Earth do you do this?"

"What?" But before he could respond, Cosette had jumped off the couch and all but ran to the window. "Oh, Jehan! Look, the rain's stopped!"

And Jehan could not help but laugh. "That. How do you do that? In one breath you tell me of all the injustice you suffer, in the next you tell me how beautiful the world is."

Cosette turned back to him. "You're the poet. You tell me."

He shook his head. "I may have been a poet once, Cosette, but that was a long time ago. Another life. I look at you and at Marius and 'Chetta, too, and I see that there must still be beauty in the world. But whether I am in a garden or on the streets, no matter where I look, I can't find any beauty. I am lost among all I used to know. I used to see all the beauty, all the hope and joy that you see. And now I can't."

With a heavy sigh, Cosette returned to her place beside him. "You just have to look harder. One can only see all the hope and beauty that does exist once they realise all the injustice that coexists alongside them."

"All of my friends are dead, Cosette," shutting his eyes as his voice broke. "Every single one of them save for Marius. They all died and I was helpless to stop it. How am I to find hope with that?"

Cosette wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. "May I tell you a story?" She could feel him nod against her.

"I haven't even told Marius this before," she began, her voice suddenly graver than he had expected. "But I was not always as lucky and not always as loved as I am today. My mother was no one and I know nothing about the man that fathered me. All I remember of my mother was that she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world and she loved me. But my father left her unwed with a small child, so she had to do what she could to see me fed.

"No one's willing to look out for an unwed mother, Jehan. It was truer then, but still true now. So she left me with another family who had two girls about my age. They promised to care for me until my mother had saved up enough to come get me. They promised to love me as if I were one of their own. But they lied. I was less than a servant to them. They took my clothes and gave them to their own girls while I was left in rags. It fell to me to clean the house, sew, do the shopping. And I was not even three when my mother left me there.

"But she never knew any of this. She got work and sent money for me, money that I never benefited from. When she lost her job, she sold all she could to send me money. She even sold herself. And, when she died, my father, my real father - the one who loved me - promised to care for me. And he did. And I was so, so happy."

Cosette finished her story with tears streaming down her face. "So there," she said softly, her back perfectly straight as she stared ahead. "I grew up as impoverished as anyone could. For five years, no one ever showed me any kindness. But I still knew it existed. And now - now on most days I still know how to be happy."

For a long while, they sat there in absolute silence. After several minutes, Cosette allowed herself to lean back against Jehan and thanked him silently for his continued silence for, not making her say any more, for not telling her to smile and dry her tears.

"That will be Marius," she finally said, in response to the sound of wheels outside.

Jehan squeezed her hand. "And 'Chetta."

"And 'Chetta."

Jehan sighed. "Very well. I'll stay, if it's so important to you."

Cosette shook her head. "I wasn't trying to manipulate you, Jehan. I just…"

"You want us all to be happy."

"Very much so."

"Does she know I'm here?"

"Marius should have told her on the way."

Jehan sucked in another deep breath. "Then I will try to be happy, if only so your and your husband's sneaky work doesn't go to waste."

With a soft smile, Cosette rose and went to the door, silently preparing herself for the dinner to come. And, to her surprise, there was peace.

e-e-e-e-e

The same, however, could not be said for the little church across the city. For Sebastien, that morning had started off like any other - raining and grey with the horrible songs of his companion waking him up far too early. After nearly half an hour of pulling his pillow over his head, he dressed himself and went to knock angrily on her door.

"What the Hell are you doing?" he demanded the moment his companion opened the door.

She lifted up a braid with a half-tied bow and waved it before his nose. "My hair, monsieur."

"I could hear you singing from my room."

With a dramatic sigh, the girl finished tying the ribbon and threw her braid back over her shoulder. "I was _happy_ this morning, monsieur," she declared, turning around and walking back into her room, only looking over her shoulder once to beckon him to join her.

"Happy?" In all his months of knowing the girl, happiness was perhaps the last word he would even think that she would use to describe herself.

"Mhm. I finished Pizan last night."

He smiled, sitting himself down in her chair. It was no easy read, the book which he had given her. He had been nothing short of shocked when she had proudly declared that she would read this one on her own. "And? What did you think?"

The girl grabbed the book from her nightstand and sat at the foot of her bed. "I don't know."

"Oh?"

"It was… I think I liked it. I just... it was hard."

At that, Sebastien smiled. "It should be. It's over four hundred years old. I didn't expect you to finish it until at least December. This is nearly half a month early."

The girl smiled at that. "I'm learning, I guess." She paused for a moment, running fingers over the cover as though the book held all the mysteries within her. "Monsieur?"

He looked up and, to his surprise, was met by eyes glistening with tears unshed, the girl's face twisted into a grimace that made him almost want to match it. "Are you unwell?" he asked, rising from his chair.

The girl shook her head, but, still, the look upon her face made him wonder if she was about to be ill. But she just shook her head again and waved him off. "What - what is the date today?"

"The eighteenth," he responded promptly. "Are you sure you're well?" he asked, approaching her again. "I've never seen you so white."

She squeezed her eyes shut and muttered something he couldn't make out. Grasping her shoulder, he sat next to her. "Tell me what's wrong," he said softly, grabbing her face and willing her to look at him. In all her fits, in all her anger and sadness, he had never seen her so pale. She looked as though death itself had taken her over and it took all of his strength to prevent himself from shaking along with her.

"Please," was her only whisper.

"What? Should I have someone send for a doctor?"

The girl shook her head and then, suddenly, stood with such force that he all but slipped from the foot of her bed. "Leave. Please. Just leave me."

Trembling, he stood and took a step towards her. "Mademoiselle?"

She spun around and hurled her book at him with all of her strength, hitting him in the middle of his face and forcing him to stumble backwards. "Leave me!" she shrieked, her face mad as she advanced towards him. "Get out! Go away!"

"Tell me what's wrong," he demanded, surprised at the calmness of his own voice.

"Get OUT!" And, holding up his arms to protect his face, he obeyed, her cries following him until he cleared the door.

He heard it slam the moment he turned the corner, however, and immediately turned back. Through the door, he could hear her sobs, loud and dry. He must have stood there for nearly a quarter of an hour before, unable to hear her misery any longer, he went back to his own room.

It made no sense. She had woken up happy that morning, she had told him so herself. She had been full of such joyful pride and then, suddenly, it had all vanished. There had been no rhyme or reason to it. And, despite the girl's often whirlwind emotions, he had found reason. For since that night only a few weeks ago, when he had informed her, to her utter disbelief, that he would not abandon her, she had not shed a single tear. At least, not one that he knew of.

After the better part of an hour, he rose again to see if the girl's crying had subsided. Yet when he got to her door, he could still hear the hysterical sobs within. They grew neither softer nor louder when, after convincing himself that it was in both of their best interest, he knocked. Waiting only another moment to give her the chance to respond, he slowly pushed the door open.

The girl was sitting on her windowsill, the cool November winds having long since swept her hair out of its braid. Slowly, he approached her, not daring to give her cause to jump.

"Mademoiselle?" She didn't look up. "Mademoiselle, you'll get sick with the window open like that." He reached out his hand, hoping that she would take it and come away from the open air.

"Do you ever wonder," she choked through her sobs, "if you could fly? If you could just step out a window and go to heaven and never have to worry again?"

He took another step forward. "I think the road to salvation is longer than that."

To his surprise, her sobs quieted and, after another minute, she turned to face him. When she spoke, her ragged voice was barely above a whisper and sent through him a chill that rooted him to the ground. In the hour since he had seen her last, her voice seemed to have aged fifty years. "But don't you just ever pretend you have wings? That you could fly as you please?"

"When I was a child," he finally managed to respond.

At that, the girl let out a choked sound and allowed herself to fall from the ledge back into her room. He watched motionlessly as she pulled her knees to her chest and tried to melt into her dress. In a blink, he was kneeling beside her and pulling her to her feet. When she did nothing but lean against him as though she were no more than a doll, he hoisted her into his arms and made his way towards her bed.

"I'm seventeen," she whispered as he set her down. She grabbed the pillow from beside her and held it close, as though she could make believe she were talking to it rather than Sebastien.

"I'm sorry?" He sat beside her, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

Sniffling, she looked up at him. Her face and eyes were nearly as red as blood. A mixture of snot and tears dripped slowly from her chin to her pillow, mixing with the stray hairs that now fell around her face.

"I'm seventeen," she repeated. "Today. I'm seventeen today. November eighteenth, eighteen fifteen."

She continued to look at him with wide, red eyes as he stared at her with an open mouth.

_Seventeen_. He had always been sure that she was young, but to hear the words actually leave her mouth - _I'm seventeen_. She did not just appear to be a child - she was one. She was the sixteen year old child who had pulled him from the barricade and carried him through Paris to safety.

Quickly, he turned his gaze from her and closed his still gaping mouth. "I - um - it's your birthday?"

"Yes," came her trembling response.

He tried to force himself to laugh, to pretend that her youth didn't scare him. That there was nothing terrifying about a child so young having gone through all that the girl beside him had gone through. "You - you should have told me. I would have gotten you something. For your birthday."

Her laugh, despite the rawness left from her tears, was more convincing than his own. "That's silly, monsieur. I don't need anything."

With a sad smile, he turned to face her. She was still clutching her pillow, leaning against the headboard of her bed. Her face and eyes were slowly returning to their previous, eerily pale colour. With a small attempt to return his smile, she brushed her hair out of her face.

"I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure that this wasn't how you imagined turning seventeen, was it?" She glanced down at her lap in response. "What do you normally do on your birthday?"

"Nothing," she murmured, plucking a piece of lint from her skirt and flicking it to the floor.

"So last year you spent your birthday in tears?"

Squeezing her eyes shut, the girl tilted her head back in an attempted to prevent more tears from falling. "My father gave me some money. Just a little. I bought some bread and my brother and I tried to feed the sparrows, but the pigeons kept taking everything. But I always liked the sparrows more. When we were little, my sister and I used to chase them. I think she did it because I did. And I did it because I kept wondering if, one day, they'd let me fly away with them." Sniffling, she brought her arm to her face and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Silly, isn't it? Wanting at seventeen the same things you wanted when you were three?"

"It's not silly at all," he managed to say. But he could feel his hands shaking. In just a matter of seconds, she had confirmed to him more details about her life than she had in the last five months. She had a brother and a sister. She had a father who gave her money for her birthday. Money was special. Money was rare. And, if all this was true, perhaps the rest of her fairy tale had some truth to it as well. Perhaps she had fallen in love with one of his friends. Perhaps she knew nothing of that man's death. Perhaps she had joined the barricade with a selfish and broken heart.

Perhaps that story was her life. Perhaps that was the life she had wanted to escape from for all of her seventeen years. It was the life she was still trying so very hard to leave.

So, in that moment, he decided that he would never again press her for her name. If she wanted to escape the life of her past, he would not stop her. Seventeen years was a long time to want to be something you weren't.

"You expect me," he said finally, "to continue to call you 'mademoiselle' and 'mademoiselle' alone forever?"

"Only as long as you know me."

"And if I were to call you something else, would you respond?"

She arched her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side in confusion. "I don't understand."

"If I called you Sparrow, would you respond to it?"

The girl dropped her gaze back to her lap and, for a moment, he worried that perhaps she would again accuse him of mocking her. In the past, her accusations were valid. But today, he had decided, the girl would be renamed.

"'Sparrow isn't a girl's name."

"No, it's a bird's name."

When the girl raised her face to him, he saw, for the first time, the smile of a young girl. The way her eyes opened wide in surprise, the way she bit her lower lip as though he had embarrassed her. But she was happy, he could tell.

"I think I would. Respond, I mean. If you were to call me that."

"Good. Everyone should have a name, even if it's not the name we're born with. It's the most important thing you can have."

The girl - Sparrow - laughed. "I think food and a bed might rival it."

But Sebastien shook his head. "Food and a bed can be taken away. But your name is only gone when you give it up. No one can take it away from you. No one can ever tell me that I am not Sebastien, just as no one can tell you that you are not Sparrow."

"Sparrow," she echoed, testing the name on her lips. "Sparrow. I could fly with a name like that."

He smiled, watching as she almost silently whispered her new name over and over again, as though the more she said it, the more it became her own.

"Mademoiselle Sparrow?"

"Mhm?" she murmured, now tracing the letters onto her pillow with her finger.

"I have a new book for you. Would you like it now?"

Her hand dropped. "For me?"

"Yes. We can call it a birthday gift."

To his surprise, she shook her head. "I actually think I'd quite like to rest. Perhaps later tonight?"

Nodding, he rose from her bed. "I look forward to it," he told her as her turned to leave.

"Monsieur Sebastien!" He turned around to see the girl rising from her bed. "I... thank you."

He simply nodded his head towards her. Truly, she had nothing to thank him for. "Happy birthday, Mademoiselle Sparrow."

But upon returning to his room and seeing the book on his table, he decided that it was best to bring it to her - everyone deserved something for their birthday. True, he would have given it to her anyway, but he could not help himself from grabbing it and returning to her room. He would knock and hand it to her silently. She needn't read it now, but she should at least have it in her possession. Another book to call her own.

But when he got to her room, the door was open and the girl was sitting once more on the windowsill. But now, rather than crying, she was singing in that horribly off-tune voice and watching over Paris from above, like the bird she was.


End file.
